


My Mind Is A Warrior; My Heart is A Foreigner

by Rebeccambett



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2015 - Freeform, Alcohol, Angst, Communication Failure, Drug Abuse, Erotica, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Famous Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Photographer Harry, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Triggers, YouTuber Louis, deleted fic, reposted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-10-24 15:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 86,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebeccambett/pseuds/Rebeccambett
Summary: Harry Styles is feeling uninspired. With a final photography showcase looming in just two weeks, he's quickly running out of time. It's not that he can't get good pictures - taking photos is easy - but he just can't find the motivation. Nothing is good enough. He's looking for beauty and he just can't find it.Louis Tomlinson is eccentric and fun and way too busy handling internet fame to care for the cute, straight boy with the Polaroid camera. After Louis is paired with Harry during a YouTube collaboration competition, he finds himself drawn to him in ways he never expected. Louis doesn't fuck shy boys - he's the life of a party, looking for some rival fun. Harry is none of that. So why can't Louis get the boy out of his head?Now Louis has to spend every minute of the next week with him - the boy who's so not his type. Cooped up in a hotel room, attending fashion shows and art festivals, partying with him. Louis thinks it's his idea of a nightmare.With Harry testing his every boundary, crossing every one of his lines, Louis' wild and crazy antics will begin to come back to haunt him. And he really can't handle that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this 4 years ago and then took it down for personal reasons. Now, I can finally post it back up for all those who enjoyed it to come back to it once more. 
> 
> This work is very explicit and not recommended for young readers or those triggered by drug abuse, rape or non-consensual sex or other mature themes. TRIGGER WARNING. I will not be putting trigger warnings on the individual chapters as I do not feel that this whole story is at all suitable for those who might feel triggered and so I don't encourage them to read. 
> 
> However, if you are not affected by these lines, themes or subplots then feel free to enjoy. 
> 
> Chapters will be posted every so often, so check back in regularly to stay updated. This work has not been beta'd. 
> 
> This story features 'lack of communication' as a real plot drive - if this sort of thing bugs you then this story won't be your thing.
> 
> Please remember this was written four years ago, and we have progressed in the LGBTQ+ community massively since then (THANKFULLY) but some themes, dialogue, thoughts etc will be presented by the characters in a way that was commonplace in 2015. 
> 
> If you like this story, please leave a comment, and please share the link with your friends. 
> 
> I do not give permission for this story to be posted on other sites (e.g. Wattpad), however as said if you like it please feel free to share the link.
> 
> If you remember this fic, welcome back. If you're a new reader, settle back and enjoy!
> 
> Becca x

Harry stared at the photograph, a small frown creasing between his eyebrows. When he took it, the angle had been perfect; he’d truly thought this was the one – the picture that was going to really make his portfolio. But somewhere along the way – the lighting, perhaps, or the editing – the image had lost its soul. It didn’t spark that ball of warmth in Harry anymore. He didn’t feel like he was staring at something beautiful.

Irritated, Harry gave a soft groan and pushed the thick photo paper away, slumping his head on the table.

“Styles, mate,” someone cooed from across the room, seeing his distress. “What’s up, man?”

Harry looked up to see Zayn Malik approaching him, scratching his bearded jaw absent-mindedly. If there was anyone on this entire planet that was born to sit before a camera lens, it was Zayn Malik. He was so beautiful, it hurt. Often, Harry would sit and fantasize that Zayn was  _his_  assignment model and not Liam Payne’s, and he’d feel that ball of warmth swell in his chest, making his eyes sting and his lips press together into a thin line.

Harry admired him now – just to take his mind off his failure of a photograph. The boy lounged against the desk in front of Harry’s, dark hair artfully combed into a tousled mess. His olive skin and whisky-colored eyes only complemented the sharp lines of his face – high cheekbones, angular jaw, straight nose. He looked as though he’d stepped from the page of  Japanese Manga – though he was actually of Middle-Eastern descent – and Harry was getting that  _eyes-are-stinging-he’s-so-beautiful_  feeling again; he looked away quickly, mumbling a vague response.

“It’s not working,” he said quietly. Despite his shameless admiring, Zayn Malik actually intimidated Harry – who was shy and quiet, though by no means unsociable. “I thought the picture would be great but it fell flat.” He waved towards the incriminating photo, shrugging his shoulders as if to say ‘it’s no big deal’ when actually, Harry was crying inside.

Zayn picked up the picture and examined it, lips pursed. Pointing to the main feature of the image – a dotted mug – Zayn pulled a face. “You still haven’t found a model?”

Harry grimaced. “Don’t remind me, please.”

Zayn gave an apologetic smile as Liam called him from across the room. “You know I’d help, man, if it was in the rules. I like you – you’re a nice lad.”

“Thanks?” Harry couldn’t help the uplifted tone – as if he was questioning Zayn’s words. Harry was quite wary of compliments; it was difficult to tell if a person ever really meant them. “It’ll be a miracle if I graduate at this rate.”

Zayn murmured something unintelligible sympathetically before giving a sad little wave and jogging away. Harry’s gaze followed him, watching as Zayn bumped fists with Liam and the two of them poured over Liam’s fresh spread of pictures. Harry respected Liam; he had a good eye for what was beautiful – as he’d shown by scouting Zayn from the art department. Zayn was actually a brilliant artist – really, paired up with Liam, the two of them were unstoppable.

Sighing his envy, Harry carefully placed the cap back on the lens of his camera and packed it away. Gathering his pitiful portfolio pieces, he stood, stumbling clumsily for a moment before righting himself.

“You off, Harry, dear?” The photography supervisor asked as he headed towards the door. He’d consider her a teacher, but she didn’t really teach. Which was a good thing, of course. You couldn’t  _teach_  art. It was a natural gift.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “It’s not my day today. I need to go elsewhere for inspiration.”

“Alright, just make sure you put in the extra time to catch up on what you miss.”

He waved her off, shrugging his camera bag over his shoulder, careful not to jostle it too hard. Fingering his Polaroid in his pocket out of nothing but pure comfort, Harry nodded and left.

The air was crispy and cool as he strode across the university campus. Heading over to the small, quaint coffee shop – Cara’s Coffee - in the corner of the courtyard, Harry pulled his phone out and opened his emails. Surprised because he’d received more than five since he’d checked them this morning, Harry closed his phone, figuring he’d read them when he was sat with his coffee.

He loved this coffee shop; there was something so pretty about it. It was charming and indie and very old-fashioned – most students opted for the modern Starbucks two minutes down the road from here – but Harry almost felt a little sorry for Cara’s Coffee shop. He felt like it was the runt of a litter of puppies, or something. It was like a personal obligation of his to keep it thriving. He never liked Starbucks anyway; it was too crowded and they always put too much creamer in his coffee.

The queue was non-existent so Harry’s order was taken immediately. The barista’s face lit up when she saw him and she put her book down with a gleeful squeal.

“Harry!” She grinned. “It’s been too long since you’ve come back here! Where’ve you been?”

“Sorry,” Harry murmured sheepishly, and he actually felt the apology deep in his gut. “I’ve been so caught up on my photography assignments – I’ve struggled to find a model for weeks now and the final showcase is in a fortnight and I have nothing ready.”

She gave a small pout. “I could always model, babe.” Blowing him a kiss, she set to work preparing his usual. Harry liked this barista – Megan. She always gave him a size up from what he ordered for no extra charge.

“No offence, but you’re not the kind of model I’m looking for.” He felt awful saying it, but he had said it before. She was too...artificial. She plastered her face in makeup and at least eighty percent of her hair was false. Which was fine, of course. Harry didn’t judge what she looked like because she was happy, but she wasn’t what he was looking for. Apparently unruffled by his comment, she just shrugged.

“Offer still stands.” She winked, eyeing him flirtatiously. “Check you out with your fedora, Styles! Channelling the indie hipster, right?”

Harry’s fingers brushed the rim of his hat self-consciously. “I like it – I think it’s different.”

“Different from your bandana.” She nodded, sliding his drink over to him. He tipped her – he always did – and she beamed at him, tucking the notes into her bra. He took his drink over to the corner of the café, despite the fact that the place was almost empty except from an elderly woman reading the newspaper. Megan went back to reading her book, flicking through the pages with a casual air. Harry suspected she wasn’t actually reading the book, but rather, using it to hide how much she was goggling him. He didn’t mind; she wasn’t doing any harm.

Harry pulled his phone charger from his satchel and plugged it into the wall socket, waiting for the battery to light before he reopened his emails. Three were from photography jobs he’d lined up for himself alongside his coursework; one, a family photoshoot, the second was a boudoir shoot he’d agreed – albeit reluctantly – to do for his cousin’s best friend, and the third, a local magazine model shoot. Easy tasks, really. Boring.

The fourth email was the monthly photography catalogue he’d subscribed to – some of the pieces of work that featured in it each month took his breath away. He looked forward to sinking his teeth into that later. The fifth email was slightly different. Forwarded from his sister – she’d thought of him when she’d seen the email in her junk folder – Harry’s thumb hovered uncertainly over the message.

_Calling artists – YouTubers want your work!_

Opening the message, Harry took a sip of his coffee – sweetened with sugar – and began to read.

_To celebrate Arts’ Week in London next week, YouTubers are looking to collaborate with 5 of you to get your artwork broadcasted on a massive scale! In this competition, you will get the chance to pair with a famous * YouTuber and work together to create a mini-portfolio of your work. Who knows, with your YouTuber’s help, you could have your work scouted by major agents and studios!_

_Upon winning, you’ll be staying in a top-of-the-range hotel for seven nights with your fellow YouTuber partner, win a pair of tickets to countless † Arts’ Week events and have your shot at fame. To have a chance of winning this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, fill in your details down below and submit three samples of your previous artwork to be considered._

_*_   _Famous constitutes YouTube significant figures/’vloggers’ with one million subscribers or more._

 _†_   _You will win 2 x tickets for 3 x randomly-selected Arts’ Week events. These will be red-carpet tickets and will be credited to you and your partner only. Any illegal transfer, selling or donation of these tickets will render them void._

_YouTubers participating:_

_Louis Tomlinson – LtommoBoi – 6.8 million subscribers_

_Eleanor Calder – Elealder – 4.7 million subscribers_

_Rhydian Hiat – HiatYoAss – 4.2 million subscribers_

_Florence Justice – FloJust – 3.9 million subscribers_

_Samuel Oakwood – SamOak – 2.8 million subscribers_

Tagged on the end of the email, Gemma had written:  _Seems like you could use the added publicity – why not? You’ve got nothing to lose. :P_

Closing down the email, Harry rolled his eyes. He didn’t even watch YouTubers! He’d never even heard of any of them – well, Rhydian Hiat’s name rang familiar bells in his head; perhaps he’d heard the name in conversation before. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to enter a competition he knew absolutely nothing about. Drinking the last dredges of his coffee, Harry traced the weird doodle on the carbon cup. It was some sort of Mexican sombrero, though he suspected it was supposed to be an imitation of his fedora. Megan always traced some sort of design on his coffee and if it particularly interested Harry, he uploaded it to his Instagram. Harry snapped a pic, uploading it to his profile with the words – _Fedora’s Companion –_ because, really, this coffee wouldn’t taste the same if it wasn’t for the fedora Harry was wearing on his head. He was gathering quite a following on his Instagram profile, now. He had over three thousand. He was pretty proud of that fact – proud and humbled.

Clicking off the app, he threw his cup away and gathered his camera kit before waving goodbye to Megan and leaving. He texted Gemma:  _I’d never win that comp – not bothering with it_ to which she replied:  _Thought you’d say that – that’s why I already entered you._

 

**-*-**

 

“Hello!” Louis grinned, giving his trademark awkward wave to the camera. “Name’s Louis Tomlinson and I will be your entertainer for the rest of the-” He checked his watch. “Okay, no, I won’t. But it  _is_  nine o’clock and I did promise you guys a livestream Q&A this evening…” He trailed off when he saw the comments flood into his twitter. “You guys are already condemning me for my time error – I LIVE IN LONDON AND IT’S NINE O’CLOCK HERE, OKAY?” Chuckling to himself, he decided to click on a few follow buttons, no doubt making someone’s day. It was a wonder his laptop hadn’t frozen with his mentions – they just kept streaming through, no end in sight, and when Louis checked his livestream, he could see why. He had almost eight hundred thousand viewers already. He couldn’t fathom how many people that was. It blew his mind.

“So, guys,” His own name caught his eye and his grin widened. “Holy shit, we’re trending worldwide already. It’s been what, ninety seconds? You guys are awesome. For those new viewers: trend on the hashtag TommoLivestreamQA and I’ll be on that tag answering some of your questions in a mo.” He took a sip of his steaming tea, wincing at the heat. “Hot – burnt my lip. Shit.”

Louis didn’t worry that his viewers called him out on his swearing – it’s a common occurrence in his videos and they knew that if Louis wasn’t swearing, then he was probably reading from a script or autocue. They liked the honesty that came with his cussing.

“So,” Louis put his mug down, picking up his phone. “I was scrolling through Tumblr the other day – I’m not telling you my secret account, oh no. Anyways, I was scrolling and I came across this fanfiction. I know you guys write fanfiction a lot and I never read it because I’d probably never retain any sanity – you’re  _my_  fans, after all.” Laughing softly to himself because he couldn’t believe he could say that, even 6.8 million subscribers in, Louis shook his head. “Anyway, point is – it was a Souis fic – your nickname for ‘shipping’” he air quoted, “Sam Oakwood and I.”

He paused to catch his breath. “The artwork for this fic was  _pretty fine_. But then that  _boy_  is pretty fine; I mean, have you seen his body? He’s, like, crafted by the Gods.” Louis placed his hands together as a prayer and tilted his head up, hoping that the low-quality of the webcam hid his blush. “I didn’t read the fic because I spent too much time admiring his face. He’s such a beautiful boy and his videos are actually cool, too - he deserves so many more subscribers. Ya’ll should subscribe to him. I can’t wait for the day I finally get to meet him.” He crossed his fingers. “It’ll be soon hopefully – he retweeted my tweet the other day about Arts’ Week, did you guys see? Oh wait, of course you did.”

He put a finger up. “Talking of said retweeted Tweet: I’m so proud to be taking part in Arts’ Week this year – I feel like it’s going to be epic, combining art with the internet. Aren’t they both just the best things ever?” Pulling his sleeve over his hand, he rested his head in his sheathed palm, biting his lip as he read through the comments streaming alongside the webcam video. Most of the comments were what Louis expected: super-fans shipping Sam with Louis, typing explicit remarks, some were completely crazed over the fact that Louis  _mentioned_  fanfiction, others were more bothered about his secret Tumblr account.

@Souisfan: _OMFG Louis called Sam beautiful! MY LIFE IS COMPLETE ASDFGHJKL OTP OTP_

@LouGal: _wtf Louis has a secret tumblr omfg so embarrassing I’ve reposted so much shit what if he’s seen it omfg_

@pixiedot: _It’s so good to see that @Louis_Tomlinson hasn’t changed at all. He’s still the most humble, funny guy he’s been since day one four years ago. Now, here he is 6.8 m subscribers down the line aw so proud_

Louis smiled, brushing his fringe over his forehead. “Thanks, @pixiedot – you’re too cute.”

The comments box exploded. _OMFG HE’S READING OUR COMMENTS. FREAKING OUT. OMFG FOLLOW ME LOUIS PLEASE PLEASE I LOVE YOU_

“’Kay,” Louis said, dragging his eyes from the comments. “I’m going to answer some of your questions now because ya’ll are making me blush from your nice comments.”

He clicked on the worldwide trend and scrolled down; it’s hindered slightly by the fact that new tweets were constantly coming through but he looked for interesting questions anyway; he was bored of the normal ones.

 _“Are you going out with Eleanor?”_ Louis read and he swallowed. There was this massive scandal with him and Eleanor after a leaked video of him and her taking shots and then drunkenly kissing aired online. He hadn’t meant for it to happen – it was almost an experiment: to see if there was any part of him that wasn’t gay. Because if he wasn’t straight for Eleanor, he wouldn’t be straight for anyone. Alas, he’d been proven gay through and through – he’d been almost disappointed by Eleanor’s kissing. She’d laughed at him when he’d admitted as much, ruffled his hair and then pulled him in for a friendly hug. Eleanor was lovely, really, but not a girl he’d ever fall in love with.

“Eleanor and I are just friends,” he said solemnly. “Like, we did that collab a few months back – that was so much fun – I’ll tweet the link for those of you that haven’t seen it. I’d do another video with her again any day; she’s great. But like, no, I’m not seeing her. I’m still gay.” Bashful, Louis distracted himself by taking a slow, calculated sip of his coffee.

“Guys, I just revealed my complete crush on Sam Oakwood and you’re still asking me about Eleanor?” He shook his head, bemused. “Oh, God, what if he’s watching this? I promise I’m not as creepy as I sound, Sam!”

Overcome with the sudden hilarity of the situation, Louis dissolved into a fit of giggles, hiding his smirk behind his hand. When he finally sobered – and about five hundred fresh comments about his ‘dorky, cute laugh’ appeared on Twitter – he looked for a new question.

 _“Did you get another tattoo? Someone saw you at the tattoo parlour in London last week.”_ Surprised, as he usually was, that people recognized him in real life, he said, “Yeah, I got new ink on my wrist – a skull.” He pulled his sleeve up and pressed his arm to the camera. “See? I don’t know, it seems pretty cool. I like inking myself; gives me something to look at, right? Skin’s quite boring.”

“ _Where are you next week? You’re always travelling!”_ Louis pulled a sheepish face. “I can’t help travelling – meeting new people is fun and there’s always somewhere new to go! Next week, I’m actually moving out of my flat to stay in a hotel for a week. Arts’ Week, remember? So I’m sharing a twin room with whoever my art collab partner is. Looking forward to it. Should be fun. Providing they aren’t…horrible or anything.” He shrugged. “I actually  _am_  really excited for next week; I’m going to so many red-carpet events, meeting talented, new people, seeing great work! My next video will be uploaded Wednesday – as usual – but by then I should know who my collab partner is so we can do, like, a little intro video? If you’re game for that, show the love in the comments or whatever.” He gestured to the comment box rather exuberantly. “And I’M SO CLOSE TO 7 MILLION SUBSCRIBERS WHAT AM I GOING TO DO. Yeah, I need some celebratory ideas so tweet me, comment me, message me, whatever you can – Whoever’s idea I use will be my Awesome Soul of the Week.”

His phone vibrated – an incoming text from his agent. Without seeming like he was checking his phone in the middle of a livestream, Louis read the screen.  _Aspire Gen. Arts’ Week Comp calling in five._ Knowing he was going to have to answer that call, he cleared his throat. “Alright, guys, I’m super sorry I couldn’t answer many questions but I’ll do a follow spree later on! As it is, my next video is up next Wednesday – don’t forget to subscribe to LtommoBoi on YouTube and follow me on Twitter @Louis_Tomlinson if you haven’t already. Follow spree later and I LOVE YOU GUYS. This is the Tommo,” he saluted, giving his trademark farewell he’d owned since he first began making videos, four years ago – the ripe age of nineteen. “I’m out.”

Louis shut off his laptop - double-checking to ensure he wasn’t still live – to answer his phone. “Louis Tomlinson,” he answered crisply.

“Hi, this is the conductor of the Arts’ Week YouTuber Collab Competition, Courtesy of the Aspire Generations Charity.”

Balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear, Louis got up and emptied his cup of tea into the sink, jumping backwards when the liquid splashed back onto his white shirt. “Hi, yeah, I’m involved in that.” He grabbed a cloth to wipe the coffee stain but it only spread further. Grimacing, Louis slumped against the kitchen counter. He  _liked_  this shirt.

“I’d just like to inform you that your collab partner has been drawn.”

Excitement and dread twisted inside him simultaneously, and he could barely keep the grin from his face. “Right?” He responded, trying desperately to keep his voice neutral.

“His name is Harry Styles; predominantly a photographer but it looks like he’s done some design sketchwork, too. London University student – unsigned, unrepresented. The kid’s raw talent. We paired him with you because he’s quite shy – introverted, even - and you’re…well, not.”

Louis took that as a compliment. “Social media platforms?”

“No YouTube channel – in fact, video activity is non-existent all together, but he does have Instagram and Twitter.”

“Great, his usernames?” Louis pulled a pad of paper towards him and plucked a pen from this absurdly cute clay pot he made with this other YouTuber who went off the radar like ten months ago. Louis made a mental note to drop them a text or a message just to check they were okay.

While the coordinator reeled the usernames off, Louis tried to paint a picture of the kid. Shy, a photographer – Louis was going to hazard a guess that Harry was younger than him. Talented. Louis hoped he wasn’t cocky with his talent. If there was anything Louis couldn’t stand, it was cocky people. It was so degrading to others, and it just made someone…bitter.

He practically ran to his laptop, listening to the coordinator outline the schedule for next week. Louis wasn’t worried about missing it – his agent would tell him what to expect each day. He pulled up the screen, crossed down the livestream, now offline, and searched the kid up.

His first thought was disappointment. There were no photos in his Twitter page of himself, apart from his display pic. This would have been more than enough for Louis to gleam just an image of the boy, but he couldn’t even see Harry’s face. Hidden in contrasting shadow, the emphasis of the picture just seemed to be on the view behind him. Louis could see Harry was holding up a peace sign, though, and the thought was oddly endearing, despite the fact that Louis had no idea who the boy was.

“Some photographer,” Louis grumbled, forgetting that the coordinator was still on the phone. “His display picture completely drowns him out.”

“He’s not a selfie kind of guy,” the coordinator responds wryly. “Shy, remember?”

“Right.” Louis opened Instagram and looked him up. “Oh, wow.” His jaw dropped. “You weren’t kidding about the talent. These pictures are beautiful.”

“Yeah, he’s great – we’re hoping if this all works out we can offer him an internship at GQ; we’ve got links to launch him and that’s what our Charity does, after all – but that’s a long way to go yet, and obviously not something to blab about.”

“I understand all about secrets,” Louis mumbled quietly. “Can I follow him or?”

“No,” the coordinator protests quickly. “The artists aren’t told they’ve even won the competition until Sunday-”

“The day before Arts’ Week starts?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Louis tried not to grin giddily. It meant he knew something other people didn’t. That feeling was always awesome. It also meant he could spend the next six days stalking Harry Styles – maybe he’ll finally get an idea of what the boy looks like. “That’s kind of inconvenient since I promised fans I’d reveal his name in my next video.”

“You’re going to have to work that one out for yourself. The news doesn’t come out until Sunday evening, Tomlinson. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis waved her off, though she definitely couldn’t see him. “I’ll get around it, don’t worry. I’ve delayed news before.”

“Good.” There’s a moment’s silence. “If you have any more questions-”

Distracted by the boy’s Instagram page, Louis says, “I don’t.”

“Then we’ll see you at the Aspire Generation meeting Monday morning.”

Louis hung up, letting his phone drop absently from his hand into his lap. Pulling the laptop up to his lap, he scanned through Harry Styles’ Instagram page, completely mesmerized by the colours and the pictures and the prettiness of it all. If there was anything Harry Styles knew, it was how to capture beauty, that Louis could see.

It was true that Louis had been looking forward to Arts’ Week, but now that he knew the name of his partner, knew it was all going ahead – it just made him that much more excited. He could barely contain his joy. He sent a quick text to Lottie.

 _Hey, sis, big secret – don’t tell. I know my collab partner for next week. SO EXCITED I CAN’T BREATHE –_ Lou :D

_That’s great! Who is it? I won’t tell :L – Lottie_

_His name is Harry Styles. Don’t follow him on twitter or anything; you’ll give it away. Big secret, sis. Don’t spill. – Lou_

_Give me some credit ;) His Instagram is very hipster – you like indie guys, Lou. Don’t get any ideas *wink wink, nudge nudge* - Lottie_

Louis flushed.  _I’ve never even seen the guy. I hate you. – Lou_

_Love you too -Lottie_

Grinning like a complete fool, Louis pressed his hand against his smile to stifle his giggle. He was so excited – this week was going to go way too slowly. He wouldn’t get to meet Harry until Monday morning. What was he supposed to do all week?

Surely, the excitement would kill him. Louis genuinely felt like he might die.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry patted the space on the bed next to him, grinning up at his sister with all the adoration in the world. Gemma pulled a face, her nose wrinkling, and pounced on top of him, ruffling his wavy hair and tugging on his Packer’s sweater. He’d bought it when they went to America last year – he’d watched one of their games and instantly been sold. Now, he’d worn it so often it was almost in tatters.

“How are you, H?” Gemma asked, hands touching him frequently. Harry knew what it was; they rarely got to see each other so when they did, they felt like they had to constantly make sure the other was really there. As though they weren’t just a figment of a dream. Harry’s fingers linked with Gemma’s, pressed against his cheek, and he smiled.

“Okay, Gem,” Harry confirmed. “Stressed, but okay.”

“What’s wrong?” She frowned, her eyes scanning his. Her hair was lighter than the last time he’d seen her – perhaps she’d highlighted it again. “You’re not sick or anything, right?”

“No,” Harry laughed, pushing her away. “I just can’t find a model for my photography showcase in a fortnight.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Sorry, Gem, you’re not exactly-”

“Beautiful enough, I know.” She said it like a fact, not at all fazed by the words. Harry frowned.

“You’re plenty beautiful enough,” Harry said, and it was true. When he looked at his sister, he got this warm glow in his chest – he just wasn’t sure if it was the same warm glow he got when he looked at Zayn Malik, or at a shadowy sunset, or a lone bird in a blank sky. The warmth he felt for Gemma was love – his judgment of her was clouded by his affection for her. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not beautiful, Gem.”

She pushed him lightly. “I’m not bad,” she admitted, “but not beautiful enough for  _you_. I know you, Harry Styles, you won’t settle for anything less than perfect!”

“I think that’s my problem,” Harry grumbled. “I can’t find anyone perfect for my shoot. I mean, I would have quite happily shot Zayn Malik-”

“But you can’t because he’s Liam’s model. I know. You’ve told me a billion times before.” She peered at him, blinking confusedly. “You don’t, like, fancy him, do you? Like…boyfriend attracted to him? Zayn, I mean.”

“No,” Harry shook his head, flushing slightly. “He’s too beautiful for me to be attracted to him.”

Stunned into silence, Gemma only shook her head, her blonde hair fluttering over her face. “I don’t understand you, brother. You want beautiful because it appeals to you but you’re not attracted to beauty?”

“I’m attracted to beauty – not perfection.” Harry tried to explain but when the frown resided on his sister’s face, he gave up. “Ugh, don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I find anyone, okay?”

“Great!” Rid of the sisterly duties, she jumped off the bed. “Get dressed; we’re going out.”

Harry glanced out the window. It was raining, the grey sky clouded overhead. “I don’t like the weather.”

“I don’t care,” she sang, pulling his wardrobe open. “I like you in this coat.” She pulled out a beige bomber jacket with fur around the collar. Harry loved it, but he was worried it would get ruined in the rain. Nonetheless, he wanted to please his sister – he missed her so much sometimes, so he let her pick out his outfit as he went to shower.

Out in the streets, Harry could only rely on his nifty travel camera or Polaroid to capture today’s beauty. He couldn’t lug around his professional lens all the time – it was such a large piece of kit and he would die if it became damaged – it cost a bomb.

Harry was quite attached to his Polaroid, however, and he proved as much when Gemma and Harry stepped onto the underground tube. She clung onto the tram pole and he placed a supportive arm around her waist. She stumbled – her balance was as awful as Harry’s – and laughed at her own stupidity. The laugh made Harry’s chest swell, and he snapped the moment, hearing the buzz of the Polaroid as it printed the picture instantaneously.

“ _Harry_ ,” Gemma groaned, covering her face. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m not going to apologise,” he responded smugly, tucking the picture into his pocket. “I think I like capturing beauty best when it is not forced.”

“You really  _are_  insufferable.”

They shopped for a bit and Harry had this burning itch to survey the people on the street; he wanted to pick out the pretty people – capture beauty on his travel camera. Not necessarily those with the most makeup, or the man with the biggest biceps. He didn’t pick the girl with the long hair, or the boy with the lip ring. He captured the toddler chasing a pigeon, he captured the woman tossing the homeless guy a coin, he captured the boy twirling his girlfriend under his arm, captured the awkwardness of two stranger’s bumping into each other at the donut stand. No one called him out for taking the pictures; they barely paid any attention to him. Harry Styles was invisible to everyone and he was perfectly content with that.

“Hey, Harry,” Gemma called, tugging on his shoulder, “I’m just going to go into that store over there-”

“A cosmetic store,” Harry said flatly, almost disapprovingly. He’d seen firsthand the crimes that makeup committed. Makeup hid the most beautiful things – the freckle beside someone’s eye, the pimples on their forehead, the lines of laughter in the creases of someone’s eye. He knew that when used right, makeup helped accentuate beauty – it brought out the shadows beneath a high-set cheekbone, highlighted contours on an angular face. A fickle thing, Harry thought, and not something he wanted to be surrounded with right now.

“I’ll...um...I’m going to head up to the stationary store,” Harry said. “I need a new sketchbook.”

“Okay, great,” Gemma said, happily. Harry could hear the relief in her voice. She didn’t want him moaning next to her in the shop. “I’ll meet you in that pancake cafe we always used to visit when we were kids in, like, half hour?”

“Sounds great,” Harry hugged her. “Stay safe – see you in a bit. Text me if you need me.”

They parted ways, Harry heading up the hill to the stationary store, and Gemma sheepishly going into the cosmetic store. Harry wanted to keep his head down – he hated making eye contact with strangers – but he didn’t want to miss any chances of witnessing something amazing, so he observed everything – he watched the sea gull swoop down to pick at the discarded hot dog, he watched the teenage girl run into a middle-aged man – too busy to predict the oncoming collision because her head was buried in her phone. He watched a teenage boy sway awkwardly in front of a restaurant – obviously waiting for his date. Harry hoped he wouldn’t be left disappointed. The thought made him feel almost guilty.

He saw all these things but they didn’t make him want to whip his Polaroid back out. He did snap some normal shots with his travel camera, but nothing made him want to keep a moment so perfect that he had to have it instantaneously printed. Nothing made him get that eye-watering-because-it’s-so-beautiful feeling.

Head down against the windy storm, Harry trekked up to the crest of the hill and then turned into the side street. He worried over what he was going to do if he didn't find a model in time for his showcase. Would he fail? What if he failed and then never graduated all because he couldn't settle for someone anything less than exquisite-

He hit a wall. Staggering, he crashed to the floor, twisting so that he didn’t land on his Polaroid which was in his back pocket. His hip throbbed and he gasped, head thrown back in pain, blinking away tears.

When his vision cleared, Harry saw it wasn’t a wall he’d crashed into, but a person. “Oops.” He struggled for breath, his throat stinging from the pain of holding back tears of pain.

“Hi,” the other person – a boy – said, frowning apologetically. “Shit, I’m so sorry! Let me help you up.”

Now that Harry wasn’t completely overwhelmed by the pain of his bruising, Harry could finally see who the other boy was. He wasn’t short, but he was shorter than him, and he had dark hair swept over his forehead – tousled lightly at the back. His eyes were a heady mix of blue and grey – like a winter’s storm. His smile was kind, apologetic, guilty, and a blush hit his cheeks, colouring his smooth skin.

Honestly, Harry had never seen anything so beautiful.

It wasn’t his hair, or his smile, or the smatter of facial hair across his jaw or even his eyes. It wasn’t his ripped skinny jeans or his band t-shirt or loose jacket. It was the way he held himself. There was an aura of confidence about him – he held his body straight on, as though he was confronting the world – but he slouched slightly, hands in his pockets, and it was that which betrayed his vulnerability. He held out a hand to Harry and it took him a long moment to accept it – he was too dazed by the boy stood before him, too busy analyzing every small feature.

His chest was so warm he thought he could burst. Tears were stinging his eyes, but not from the pain anymore.

“Are you hurt?” The boy asked, his tone coloured with urgent worry. He had a wonderful voice, kind of silky and smooth; – not at all low or raspy like Harry’s. He was the kind of person Harry could listen to for hours.

“No...I mean, my hip’s bruised but that’s my own fault,” Harry stuttered, gaze dropping self-consciously to the floor. “I landed funny to avoid breaking my Polaroid.” He pulled it out of his pocket, examining it carefully. It hadn’t broken, thank God.

“That’s a very indie thing to carry around,” the boy said jovially, eyeing his Polaroid with interest. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m good, really.” Harry said, biting his lip. “Thank you and, um, sorry about, like, running into you.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” He brushed him away. “I have to go – I’m late for a radio int- a thing.” The boy stumbled over his words – the first time he had, Harry thought – and a blush crept in his cheeks. “A thing. A meeting. Yeah, I’ve got to go.” He nodded once to Harry, an apology, and then sidestepped him.

“Excuse me!” Harry couldn’t stop himself; the words slipped out before he could stop them. He just didn’t want to let something so beautiful slip past him and do nothing about it. He’d kill himself later if he let this person walk away without so much as acknowledging his beauty. “Could I take a picture?”

“Oh, you’re subscribed?” The boy asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. He didn’t wait for a response and Harry wasn’t sure what to say anyway. “Sure, do you want to do, like, a selfie?”

Before the boy had stopped talking, Harry had snapped his picture. The Polaroid whirred to life, instantly printing the picture out. Harry smiled, grateful, but the boy only seemed confused.

“I wasn’t ready,” he said, almost whining, and Harry only shrugged.

“Sometimes, it is better to not be ready.” And it was true. Harry had captured the boy’s true beauty when he had least expected it. Words yet to be uttered from his lips, stormy eyes lit with a question, cheeks flushed with mild embarrassment – that was how the boy’s natural beauty came out. Not by a selfie – honestly, they were abominations! – and not by artificial posing.

“Thank you,” Harry gave a light wave, taking a step back. “And, uh, sorry!”

“Do you want me to sign it?” The boy asked before Harry could turn away.

Harry frowned, utterly confused. “No,” he said warily. “Why would I want that? It’ll ruin the picture.” Smiling his thanks, Harry nodded in greeting, flicking the picture absently in his hand, and walked away. When he was out of the other boy’s sight, Harry tucked the picture into his inner jacket pocket, letting it slide alongside Gemma’s photograph.

 

-*-

 

Niall, Louis’ best friend, sat with the entire pizza box in his lap as Louis edited the video he’d just recorded. He’d found a way to get around the promise he’d made his fans about introducing his collab partner but it meant talking about what had happened today with that bizarre boy. Still, swings and roundabouts, Louis thought. He didn’t really want to discuss an experience he’d shared with a fan because he felt like that broke some sort of unspoken rule, but he’d rather that than let his subscribers down. 

“So the guy just took your picture?” Niall asked through a mouthful of pizza. “Without even posing with you?”

“He didn’t even wait for me to smile,” Louis shook his head, utterly bemused. “So weird.  _Beyond_  weird.”

“Maybe he was shy - perhaps he doesn’t like taking pictures or something.”

“He had a Polaroid camera, Niall. If he hated taking photos, why did he have a Polaroid?” Louis didn’t wait for an answer. “He didn’t even want an autograph,” he grumbled. He wasn’t overly upset about that – just a little wounded. It was the way the boy had incredulously said  _‘Why would I want that?’_  Like he didn’t value Louis’ autograph – his popularity.

Niall shrugged, mildly offended that Louis had challenged his thoughts. “I don’t know but you said the video would be up in two hours about  _three and half_  hours ago. Hurry up and edit.”

“I’m done,” Louis said primly. “I think.” He pressed play just to make sure.

“Hi! My name’s Louis Tomlinson and this is my Wednesday upload! In this video, I’m talking Arts’ Week, a radio interview and a weird experience with a fan!”

Niall made some comment but Louis didn’t hear it - or rather, he chose to ignore it.

“Okay, so on Monday, after my livestream with you guys, I found out who my collab partner is for Arts’ Week! Unfortunately, I have been  _sworn_  to secrecy – I am so sorry about that but I can promise you’ll find out on Monday and boy, am I excited! My partner sounds pretty damn awesome and the stuff we’ve got coming up for you next week is going to be, like, fucking out of this world!”

Niall choked on a mouthful, laughing lightly.

“I had a radio interview today with BBC Radio – thanks to those of you who tuned in and tweeted me about it – you’re all totally sick and obviously I love you to pieces. I think you can hear my interview on the website so click on the link down in the description if you want to hear that. We talk music and first kisses and dos and don’ts on first dates. Oh, and awkward moments!

“Talking of awkward moments, I had a really weird fan experience today. I know I’m not supposed to talk badly about these sorts of things – and I promise I don’t think badly about it, I’m just a little... _confused_  by how it went down.”

Louis then spent a further four minutes and thirty one seconds explaining his experience with Polaroid boy, bringing the video to a total of six minutes and forty seven seconds.

“I mean, if you guys want a picture, that’s great, but at least let me  _smile_...I don’t know, but anyway, Polaroid boy, if you’re watching this, I am very sorry about knocking you over – you can sue me if I injured you – actually, don’t because I have no money to give you and I really don’t like the sound of those no win, no fees compensation companies hounding my ass. That’s it for today’s video! The next time you’ll hear from me is Arts’ Week – ahh! This is the Tommo – I’m out.”

“You’re a fucking raving lunatic, Lou,” Niall muttered when Louis clicked upload. He pushed his laptop back and rose to his feet to make them both teas. “It’s a wonder you have any fans, let alone 7 million of them. Do you want some pizza?”

“Definitely,” Louis said, reaching over Niall to grab a slice. “And it’s 6.8.”

“Nah-uh,” Niall pointed at his channel, accidentally smearing the laptop screen with pizza grease. “6.9 million. If you round it up, I’m right.”

Louis checked and sure enough, he was scarily close to 7 million followers. “Okay, I have to think about what I’m going to do with my 7 million.”

“Build an army?”

“I meant  _video ideas,_  Horan.” Louis ruffled his artificially blonde hair before heading to his bedroom to get changed into cotton pants and a loose t-shirt. “Are you staying over?”

“May as well.”

Louis tossed him some clean pants and a top and got out the spare blankets and pillows. They were always in easy reach – Niall stayed over at least once a week, sometimes up to three. Louis had been trying for three years to get Niall to feature in his videos at least once, but Niall refused, too embarrassed to even consider it.

Louis pulled his phone out and tweeted:  _Video up in 14 minutes and twelve seconds according to YouTube :)_ He didn’t press ‘Tweet’ until he’d timed it perfectly – being the dork he was. As soon as that was done, he typed Harry’s username in the search bar. He wanted to know what his collab partner had done today.

Now that Louis wasn’t completely overcome with fangirling excitement, he was able to admire Harry’s Twitter profile for what it was. His display pic was really awful, Louis had to admit, but his bio was cute.

_I take pictures of beautiful things and capture the moments everyone misses._

He hadn’t set his location, and his website was actually just his Instagram. He’d picked a blue theme which Louis wasn’t sure if it was even intentional, since blue is default. Either way, the bio just did it for Louis and he sat there staring at the profile for so long that he caught the drop down bar that stated ‘1 New Tweet’.

“He’s  _online_ ,” Louis murmured and Niall lifted his head.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, nothing,” Louis said, blushing despite himself. He turned away from Niall to click the tweet.

 **@Harry_Styles:** Beauty in words unformed.

Well, the boy wasn’t exactly descriptive, to say the least. What did that even mean? Louis narrowed his eyes, waiting for another tweet – something to explain the last one – but nothing came. Irritated because Louis couldn’t contact him, couldn’t follow him, couldn’t even message him to ask about the tweet, Louis switched to Instagram.

A new picture had been posted.  _Bird_ , Harry had written, and there was a picture of a sea gull eating the remains of discarded food on the concrete floor. It wasn’t exactly a stunning or glamorous picture, but Louis had to admit that the angle and the lighting and the detail of it made it seem above average in its normalcy. It wasn’t long before Louis was convinced that yes, this pest – this scavenging bird – was in fact the most beautiful thing Harry had posted to date.

Ugh, Louis was being ridiculous.

“You’ve been engrossed in whatever you’re doing for ages now,” Niall complained. “Come play Fifa.”

It had been a long while since Louis had curled up with Niall and played games with him. Grinning from ear to ear, because the suggestion made Louis feel nostalgic – like he was nineteen again, before all the media and YouTube stuff – Louis dropped onto the sofa beside Niall and picked up the controller. “I will own your ass at this, Horan.”

“Bring it, Tommo.”

 

-*-

 

Harry was sprawled on his dorm room floor, legs kicked out behind him, resting on his stomach. The sketchbook lay open under his nose and his arm swept across the carpet as Harry sketched a full line across the page. Tongue between his teeth in concentration, Harry glanced back up at the Polaroid snap pinned to the notice board on the wall before him, comparing. He’d spent the last few days enraptured by the picture – the boy was so beautiful that the ball of warmth in Harry’s chest never lessened no matter how long he stared at the photo – and now he was just trying to translate the image to paper. He wasn’t far off; he couldn’t quite recreate the spark of life in those stormy eyes, the tip of his lips tilted into an appreciating smile. Harry longed to see him again – just for that smile.

The lock to the dorm room door rattled and Harry looked up to see Liam strolling in, laughing a goodbye to Zayn, who lounged against the doorframe.

“Yeah, it was a nice shot, mate.” Liam agreed, fists bumping. “If I wasn’t completely straight, I’d say you’d look good doing nudes but, well...”

Harry flushed in embarrassment for Liam, and cleared his throat, letting them know he'd overheard their frankly disturbing conversation. He couldn’t understand how people could make jokes like that – they were so awkward! Still, Liam managed to pull it off, and the two of them laughed as though he’d just told the funniest pun ever.

“Oh, hey, Harry,” Liam greeted, smile growing fond. “What are we doing on the floor?”

Harry liked that Liam acted caring around him; Harry wasn’t much of a butch, masculine guy. He liked that Liam didn’t try and throw his weight around and swing false punches his way. Liam treaded softly around Harry, but then Harry was a quiet boy.

“I’m sketching,” Harry murmured, pulling his lip between his teeth. “What do you think of this boy? As a model, I mean?” He wanted Liam’s professional opinion too, wanted to make sure he wasn’t just developing some unfounded crush.

Zayn seemed to take that question as an invitation to come on into their dorm room, because he leaned over, observing Harry’s work. “You’ve got a steady hand – sick, mate,” he observed and Harry’s blush deepened; he kept his eyes fixed to the floor. He didn’t want to be caught admiring Zayn’s beauty again and he definitely didn’t want to be distracted by his chiselled body.

“Who is it?” Liam asked, crouching beside Harry. “He’s aesthetically pleasing, I’ll give you that. Great eyes – I could see him doing a broody calendar shoot.”

Harry disagreed completely, but he didn’t say as much. There was no way this pretty boy could ever do something as tacky and artificial as a calendar shoot. No, he was made for natural shots – snaps caught in laughter or anger or tears of joy.

“He’s a bit short,” Zayn noted.

“He’s beautiful,” Harry defended instantly, and then he cringed, fearing Zayn’s judgmental look.

Zayn didn’t take offence to Harry disagreeing with him, however. He shared a look with Liam before shrugging. Liam clasped his hand over Harry’s shoulder. “Well, he’s definitely good-looking, I’ll give you that. Congrats on finding your model, Styles.”

Harry spluttered, “He’s not my model. I just ran into him today. I couldn’t resist...” he shrugged.

“You just took his picture, didn’t you?”

“I asked him, this time.” Harry’s eyes dropped back to the sketch. “I remembered what you said about it being socially unacceptable to just take people’s pictures.”

Zayn chuckled and Liam looked up. “Zayn, mate, did I tell you about the fiasco Harry got himself in a few months back when he took some random chick’s photo without her permission on the street? She was so mad – I was concerned for his health, right-”

“Liam,” Harry groaned quietly. His face was on fire now. “It was an accident. Please don’t.”

Zayn, however, was not paying attention. He was staring at the Polaroid shot on the notice board, eyes narrowed. “I recognise this dude’s face, kid.” Zayn said. Harry gritted his teeth at the use of the nickname but didn’t retaliate. As always, Harry was too intimidated. “What did you say his name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Harry said, unable to hide the trace of sadness in his tone. “I don’t know his name.”

Liam shrugged, apparently bored with the conversation. He collapsed onto his bed, pulling his phone out of his pocket, and Zayn said his farewell and left. Not two seconds after the door had shut, Harry’s phone rang. He reached for it with a confused frown; who’d want to call  _him_?

“Hello?”

“Hello, am I speaking to Harry Styles?”

“Erm, yes,” Harry sat up straight, tracing the stitching of his jeans with his pencil. “Who’s speaking?”

“I’m Tanya Dean, executive manager of Aspire Generation. I’d like to inform you that you’ve won a place on our Arts’ Week YouTuber Collab campaign next week.”

It took Harry a long moment to comprehend what she was saying. “Oh,” he said eventually. “Um...okay, wow. Great.”

“You’ll be working with Louis Tomlinson – he’s very internet famous. 6.9 million YouTube subscribers and counting. He’s an active supporter of the LGBTQ switchboard in London and the face of the Young People’s Dream Alive Campaign.”

“Okay,” Harry flipped up a page on his sketchpad to jot the notes down, ignoring Liam’s questioning look at Harry’s change in tone. “When do I meet him?”

“You’re expected to attend an early meeting at Aspire Generations meeting tomorrow morning. You’ll spend tomorrow getting to know each other before spending the rest of the week in each other’s company. Of course, you’ll be filmed; the entire week will be documented on camera.”

“That sounds okay,” Harry lied. Honestly, the thought of being in front of the lens terrified him – there was a reason he’d opted to stay  _behind_  it. He tried not to let his terror show. “Do you want...like, any of my work? I don’t really know what you want from me.” He didn’t want them to think he was bragging or shoving his work in their face – quite the contrary, in fact, as Harry couldn’t think of one piece of work he’d deem good enough to show these people. Suddenly, the enormity of the situation hit him and he felt more inadequate than he ever had in his entire life.

“Just bring your photography – the work you produce this week will be the work that may make your name in the industry.” As if  _that_  helped calm his nerves. The woman seemed to shuffle some papers and she cleared her throat. “We expect you at the meeting at eight a.m. sharp. We’ll email you the address. Don’t be late – all the best agents will be there.”

Feeling as though he’d been doused in ice, Harry swallowed. “Um, right, sure. Thank you.”

The line went dead.

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Who was that, Styles?”

Harry looked up, completely overthrown with confusion. “I don’t think I’ll be attending lectures this week, Liam,” he said weakly. “I’ve been chosen to represent in Arts’ Week.” He met Liam’s gaze, unable to think past the thudding in his veins. “Is this real?”

As surprised as Harry, Liam could do nothing but burst into laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first two chapters! I will be posting the third very soon.... x


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update!

Louis sat in the conference room, doodling in his journal, head resting in his sleeved hand. He was bored. He’d arrived at least half an hour early out of pure excitement and now he had nothing to do but wait for the Aspire Generations meeting to start. He took a sip of his tea and winced – honestly, his top lip was going to be permanently scarred if he wasn’t more careful – before scrolling through his Twitter feed. He read most of the responses to his last video, scanning through the comments.

_Omg I can’t wait for tonight’s video! So excited to know who Lou is working with!_

_I can’t even deal with this boy right now. He’s so cute it hurts._

_I feel kinda bad for the fan Lou mentioned – what if sees this video? I’d be mortified!_

_Who wouldn’t want Louis freaking Tomlinson to sign their photo? Is the fan completely nuts?_

Louis almost felt a little guilty for posting the video about the Polaroid boy. He didn’t often regret what he posted, but he couldn’t help but wonder how the boy would feel if he saw the video. Feeling almost ashamed, because Louis definitely  _didn’t_  think badly of the boy – if anything, Louis’ mind hadn’t strayed from the memory of his green eyes for the last few days – Louis closed down his app as the microphone squealed with feedback.

Louis flinched like everyone else in the room, and then looked towards the source. A woman stood there, dressed crisply, clearing her throat delicately. Louis thought she’d overdone her makeup just a little bit – her winged eyeliner almost reached her temples.

“Starting early,” he mumbled to himself, silencing his phone and sliding it into his pocket.

The door slammed shut and the people in the room jumped in alarm. A boy staggered over the threshold, glancing wide-eyed at the door. He’d clearly misjudged his strength when he pulled it shut, and the slam had alerted everyone to his presence. Louis bit his lip to hide his amusement.

The boy turned around and Louis felt a thrill of recognition.

He wore sinfully tight jeans and ankle boots, paired with a loose-fitting black shirt, unbuttoned at the top, revealing his angular collarbones. Louis saw a flash of ink on his tanned skin but he was so distracted by his face that he didn’t really care to look at the tattoos. The boy’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth – a nervous habit, Louis supposed, but he couldn’t ignore the pang that hit his abdomen when he saw it. His hair fell in waves like a halo, shoulder-length, but dark curls were pulled back from his face by a bandana, which was wrapped almost like a mini turban around the crown of his head. If anyone else had chosen to wear a bandana to a conference, Louis would have snorted with scorn. But the boy seemed to carry it off well. In fact, he seemed to own everything he was wearing, despite its lack of appropriateness.

The boy adjusted the shoulder strap of his bag over his shoulder, his other hand tucked in his pocket. He didn’t make eye contact with many people and he stared at the floor, shuffling his foot awkwardly, but there was no denying who he was.

It was the boy Louis had run into before the radio interview. The boy with the long hair and the Polaroid camera. The boy who’d refused Louis’ autograph but requested a picture.

Louis sank in his seat, cheeks flaming. What if he’d seen the video rant Louis had posted last week? What if he now hated him for scoffing about their meeting? Louis shouldn’t care – after all, he didn’t even know the guy – but he couldn’t help but feel a little anxious at the thought. What was he even doing here?

“Oh, take a seat, dear,” the woman said to him, breaking the silence of the room. “We’re only just starting.”

“Sorry for being...um, late.” The boy said and his voice was as raspy and deep as it was the first time Louis had heard him speak. There was a measure of uncertainty in his tone and distinct shyness. He made his way up the stairs towards the back of the room slowly, as though he was afraid of tripping, and Louis had to physically force himself to turn back around and stop staring at him. It took him a moment to realise he was grinning goofily, and he hid his smile with the back of his hand, coaxing his sleeve over his thumb.

“Welcome to Aspire Generations Arts’ Week Collaboration. We’ve chosen five internet-famous stars and paired them with an unknown, unrepresented artist aged between sixteen and twenty five. The aim of this week is to broadcast the art through the internet – hence combining the two – in order to open the door to the teenage generation for their aspirations of becoming an artist. The idea is to inspire creativity within young people – open their minds on ideas of art, new concepts and talent.

“We have grouped together small film crews to follow the pair during the week, and they will each attend red-carpet events – whether it be fashion shows, gallery openings, movie premieres, concerts. The idea is to broadcast art in its different mediums to those that thrive on the internet. They will be filmed behind the scenes – it is best if a friendship is formed between the internet star and artist as what happens behind closed doors won’t stay behind closed doors. We envisage the footage making it to a documentary movie which will hit theatres at the end of this year.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. He was going to feature in a movie? That was beyond strange to understand. True, Louis had spent years in front of the camera and he’d seen his name crop up in the most unlikely of places – a newspaper article aimed at middle-aged men, a poster in the book store, even the back of a public toilet cubicle door – but never did he expect he’d have his name in the credits of a movie.

“From ten o’clock this morning until seven a.m tomorrow, however, cameras will be off; we encourage you all to use this time to bond with your partner before we start rolling tomorrow. Clear the air, get to know each other, overcome differences – we don’t want any negativity on film. This is a positive campaign with a positive image.”

Louis looked around; there were a lot more people in here than just the YouTubers and artists – there were security personnel, camera crew, journalists. Clearly, this was going to be covered by media a lot more than they let on. Louis was grateful he was observant; he’d hate to be someone caught off guard by the attention.

Louis flushed when he spotted Samuel Oakwood in the back of the room. He was slouched in the corner, jotting notes in a notebook, pen lid between his lips. His blonde hair was artfully styled into a sweeping mess and his tanned skin looked frankly delicious under the conference room lights. Louis looked away, thinking of the many times he’d mentioned Sam in his videos. There was no way Sam didn’t know about his ridiculous crush on him. The fans had been trying to get them to meet for the last year, and it hadn’t happened.

Louis was almost afraid to meet him now.

“So – if cameras are ready – we’re going to publicly pair the internet stars with their artist.” The woman looked for clearance from the camera man at the back of the room, who gave a thumbs up.

“With 6.9 million subscribers and counting, this YouTuber is by far our most successful. He plays an active role in LGBTQ organisations, protesting gay marriage bans in several states across the U.S. and publicly standing up for LGBTQ awareness. He’s also done work with several charities that aim to help teenagers – including Anorexia and Bulimia charities, Teenage Suicide campaigns and Homelessness in Young Adults. He’s the face of the Young People’s Dream Alive Campaign, supporting teenagers with their aspirations and aiming to fulfill the dreams of 11-18 year-olds.” By this time, Louis’ face was flaming and he grinned bashfully. He was so grateful his work was getting noticed, because if it was, then it meant the charities were getting more recognition. “Louis Tomlinson will be working with a budding photographer this week-”

She cut off, beckoning at Louis to come down the stairs. He dropped his pen on his journal and stood, clearing his throat awkwardly. He filed out of the row of seats and then walked smoothly down the stairs, running his hand over his fringe to hide his nervousness.

The room applauded, a couple of the other YouTubers whistling supportively. He’d worked with a couple of them – Eleanor, of course, and he’d spoken to Florence online. His eyes flickered up to Sam, who gave Louis a slow smirk, winking. Louis flushed and stared at the floor.

 _What am I doing?_  Gritting his teeth, he plastered a grin to his face and looked up at the audience.  _I am the most successful person in this goddamn room; why am I so nervous and embarrassed?_

“You’ll be working with Harry Styles.” The woman flicked her remote at the projector screen and a slide show of photos appeared. Most of them were recognisable – Louis had already seen them on Harry’s Instagram account – but some of them were new. Sketches of real-life photos – there’s a snap of a girl laughing, her eyes sparkling with mirth. There’s a picture of a beetle curling up on a stray leaf on concrete. The picture changed to another and this one was strangely recognisable. He didn’t know why – it’s a sketch of an eye, stormy blue, lit with a spark of hesitance. Louis thought the eye looked a lot like his own, but that would be weird right? He’s hardly even met Harry Styles.

“With each artist, we ask them to sum up their work in one quote. When asked, Harry Styles said this:” she flicked the remote again, and the slide show dissolved to reveal a blank screen with six white words.  _I capture beauty; reject the tedious._

Louis frowned. Honestly, he was sounding more and more pretentious by the minute.

“Harry Styles, if you’d like to step down to the podium and introduce yourself to Louis; he’ll be your partner for the week.”

Louis looked up expectantly, his heart thudding with excitement and hope. He hoped he’d get on with his partner, and that he wasn’t the arrogant asshole Louis was worrying over. When no one in the room stood, his stomach churned with anxiety. Were they refusing to work with Louis?

“Harry Styles?”

Finally, someone stood, and Louis thought he might pass out with the awkwardness of it all. Because Harry Styles wasn’t just a nobody, wasn’t even a stranger really. Harry Styles was the boy with gangly limbs making his way down the stairs. Harry Styles was the Polaroid-lover, the boy who’d run in to Louis last week.

What was he going to say? Louis didn’t have a clue how to act.

Harry made his way to the stage and Louis could see his hands were trembling with nerves. Sympathy and compassion rose within Louis like a tidal wave and he stepped towards the boy which was just as well because Harry chose that moment to stumble and trip, falling into Louis.

Louis held out a hand instinctively to steady him, touching his hip to calm him. “Clumsy,” he murmured not unkindly, worried for the boy’s welfare.

“Oops,” the boy breathed and Louis gave a quiet chuckle because it was the very same thing he’d said last week when he’d walked into him.

“Hi,” Louis said quietly. He was suddenly overcome by the boy’s presence. He was so tall and broad with slim hips and thighs to freaking die for. He had a body that rivalled Sam Oakwood– and that was hard for Louis to admit – but he held himself so awkwardly, hunched over, like he didn’t want anyone to spot him. “Do you make a habit of falling into strangers?”

Up close, Louis could appreciate the boy even more. His eyes were jade green, wide with shyness and anxiety, but soft with kindness, also. There was something so innocent in his gaze, so naive and gentle. His hair looked softer from here, too, and Louis had a split-second of wondering what it would be like to run his hands through his hair. He mentally batted the thought away before it embarrassed him, and he pulled his hand away from Harry, who glanced at it as though he’d only just noticed.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, “for catching me.”

Louis couldn’t hide his grin. “Anytime – though I’d prefer some warning next time.”

“Er...right.”

Already, Louis had almost forgotten the crowd watching them. There was something about Harry that was easy to be with. Despite their awkward history, Louis felt completely at ease. Perhaps it was Harry’s ineptness or his shyness but Louis felt more confident – protective, almost. He felt like he had to make up for Harry’s lack of confidence by his own.  “Louis Tomlinson – it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“We’ve met before,” he said ironically, gaze fixed to the floor, “but yes. I’m Harry Styles.”

 

-*-

 

When Louis pulled into Starbucks, Harry finally spoke. He’d been quiet thus far, not saying a word since they’d left the conference room. The silence they shared wasn’t uncomfortable, but Louis could tell that it was going to be difficult to get Harry Styles and Internet in the same sentence, let alone introduce him on camera. He just wasn’t one for extroversion, but that didn’t dissuade Louis. In fact, he was almost desperate to film their introduction video now, because he wanted to see what his fans thought of Harry. 

“Actually, Louis,” Harry said, and Louis swallowed the lump in his throat formed when he heard his name fall easily from the boy’s lips. “I’d rather go somewhere else.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, half disappointed. “You don’t like Starbucks?”

Harry grimaced. “It’s overused and overrated. I know a little coffee shop just round the corner – do you mind if we go there?”

If anyone else had said those words, Louis would have scoffed at them for trying to be so hipster. Quickly, Louis was learning that Harry wasn’t trying to be anything – this was just him. Harry Styles was indie through and through and Louis didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about that.

“Is it better?” Louis asked, reversing out of the car park after Harry gave quick directions to the new place.

“It’s usually empty.” Harry said, “I feel some sort of loyalty to it – since Starbucks opened, it hasn’t had much traffic.”

Louis shrugged, trying to hide his smile, and they pulled up outside the coffee shop. “Quaint,” Louis observed. Harry walked ahead of Louis and he took the time to admire him from behind. Harry really was very gangly but he walked with a grace and elegance, when he wasn’t tripping, that Louis had to admire. Perhaps it was his height – Louis guessed he was around six foot one – or maybe his long arms or curly hair but he walked with an ease that suggested Harry wasn’t entirely the reticent Louis had assumed. There was something in his gait that suggested confidence, or at least sureness, but it was almost overshadowed by the withdrawn hunching of his shoulders, and the bashful aversion of his gaze.

There was something alluring about him, though. Louis couldn’t deny that. Between his inked skin and ray bans, there was something about his appearance that didn’t quite add up with his personality. Louis found himself longing to find out more.

Suddenly, Harry stopped, and Louis crashed into him. “Whoa, clumsy,” he scolded, but Harry was barely listening. He crouched to the floor, pulling his Polaroid from his pocket. He hummed in sadness but Louis said nothing; he just watched.

He snapped a picture of what appeared to be the ground and the Polaroid whirred to life, instantly printing the picture. Wordlessly, Harry tucked it into his pocket.

“Um,” Louis looked around. A few stray people on the street glanced at Louis with narrowed eyes – as if they recognised him – but no one paid any attention to the boy crouched before him. “Harry?”

“It’s dying,” Harry murmured. “It’s beautiful and it’s dying.”

Completely thrown off by the wistful, tragic tone of Harry’s voice, Louis stepped around to see what Harry was looking at. On the pavement in front of them, a spider was curled in on itself, a leg twitching. Louis fought the urge to scowl with frustration or laugh mockingly but the impulse died when he saw Harry’s face. Eyes cast in shadow, his long lashes brushed the skin above his cheeks as he blinked, the jade in his eyes brighter than before. His ray bans hung from his shirt – Louis didn’t remember when he’d removed them – and his mouth was pursed with upset, a frown formed between his eyes.

“Louis, you’re in the sun.” Harry didn’t look at Louis as he lifted his hand and pushed lightly at his hip, moving him a step to the side. “Let it die in the sun, not in darkness.”

If Louis wasn’t completely captivated by Harry, he would have thought he was weird. As it was, he was completely transfixed by him, by the mourning in his eyes, the steadiness of his hands as he took the picture, the turn-down of his lips.“What’s beautiful about death, Harry?”

Harry looked up at Louis and his eyes widened briefly, his nostrils flaring and the green in his eyes darkening to something much deeper than clear green. Harry blinked rapidly, his lips flattening into a thin line. Without warning, he pulled the Polaroid up and took a picture of Louis stood over him. Louis scowled.

“Are you always like this?” He asked irritably. “That’s not the first time you’ve randomly taken my picture.”

Harry shrugged, biting his lip. Casting one last sad look at the spider, Harry stood and carried on walking towards the coffee shop. Louis growled in frustration and jogged to keep up with him. He had long legs – one stride was about three of Louis’.

Harry didn’t look at him. “What did you mean when you asked to sign the photo last time?”

“Most fans want me to sign their pictures...” Louis said, struggling to keep the shame from his voice. “And you didn’t...”

“I’m not a fan.” He didn’t say it unkindly, but there was certainty in his voice. Louis wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed by his response.

“Then why did you take the picture?”

Harry pressed his lips together and looked away. Louis sighed, almost wishing that someone had picked a more willing partner.

“Why do I get the feeling that you don’t like me much?” Louis asked as they stepped in the coffee shop.

“Harry!” The barista squealed but Harry ignored her as he turned on Louis, aghast.

“Don’t like you?” Harry asked, forlorn. “What made you think that?”

“Well,” Louis felt kind of pathetic answering him. “You don’t, like, agree with anything I say and you just seem to look over me instead of at me.”

Harry – who was actually staring over Louis’ head at that moment – dragged his gaze back to Louis’. Louis could tell it was a forced movement, and he couldn’t explain the sinking feeling of hurt in his gut. There was barely a metre between them now, they stood so close. Louis could see there was a ring of blue around his green irises and it blended the two colours until he wasn’t sure whether Harry’s eyes were green or blue. It was a pretty shade, really. The kind of colour Louis would never think existed.

“I don’t look at you,” Harry confirmed. “I’m sorry about that.” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the bandana. He pulled it out irritably, tucking the scarf into his back pocket. His hair fell around his face, framing his cheeks, and Louis wanted nothing more than to touch it, just once. Unsure how Harry would react – since they’d only just met, and all – Louis kept his hands to himself.

“Are you going to give me a reason?”

Harry’s cheeks flamed but he didn’t avert his gaze. Louis could tell he found it difficult, though. He wanted to look away. “You asked me why I took the photograph that day we met, right?”

Louis nodded. He was having a hard time forming a coherent thought with Harry stood so close to him. It wasn’t just his intoxicating aroma – a mix of mint and autumn warmth and spices – but there was something about his aura; he oozed warmth and gentleness but there was something very... _knowing_  about him. Louis felt like Harry could see right through him, right through his brass confidence and almost arrogant nature. It was like Harry could see the vulnerability beneath, the vulnerability that Louis tried desperately to hide away, lest he feel it consume him again.

“What do I do, Louis, for a living?”

Louis would have felt like he was being scolded if it wasn’t for the gentleness in Harry’s voice – only placidly firm. “You take pictures,” Louis said, keeping his gaze on Harry’s. He refused to look away, to mutter, to appear weakened by Harry in any way, though his stomach was writhing with discomfort. “You’re a photographer.”

“I take pictures,” Harry rubbed his lip absent-mindedly, and Louis’ eyes were drawn to Harry’s mouth. “What of? Just any old pictures?”

“You take pictures of...beauty.” Louis tried desperately to remember his quote from the conference. “You capture beauty; reject the tedious.”

Harry nodded, waving his hand a little as if to say ‘there’s your answer’, but Louis only felt more confused. That was less of an answer than he’d ever had before. Before Louis could respond, Harry walked towards the counter, leaving Louis to scramble after him. Shy or not, Harry was proving to be a complete and utter mind-fuck.

 

-*-

 

Harry’s insides felt like they’d been chewed by a moth. Every time he looked at Louis, his insides squirmed uncomfortably, because Louis was so freaking beautiful and Harry could barely stand to look at him for more than a few seconds because every time he did, he was reminded of his own inadequacies.

Harry was torn. He wanted to run away, treasure the two pictures he had of Louis and never see him again. Yet he also wanted to sit there and stare at Louis, admire the line of his jaw – blurred by his stubble – admire his stormy eyes, the arrogant yet confused press of his mouth. His brown hair was swept to the side and he wore an oversized denim jacket over a white band shirt.

Louis got up to get two sachets of sugar, offering Harry some. Harry shook his head – he’d already put some in – and waited quietly for Louis to speak. He didn’t want to speak first; he was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of ruining their week together on the first day. He was afraid of saying something that might offend Louis, though judging by the scowl on his partner’s face, he’d already done that.

Eventually, Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. “What did I say?”

Louis’ lashes flickered as he looked up from his tea. “Hmm?”

Harry tried not to react to the pang of longing in his stomach. It wasn’t a longing for Louis, exactly, but it was a longing for beauty, and his urge to protect that which is beautiful.

“You’re upset – I offended you,” Harry sighed. “I’m not very good at assessing social situations. I have next to no friends and my dorm-mate has to  _teach_  me how to act around people. If we’re going to spend the next week together, you should know that I don’t really know what upsets people and I have no filter between my thoughts and what comes out of my mouth. It’s why I tend to keep it shut.”

“So...you’re not shy, just quiet?”

“I tell myself to be quiet to save hurting others.” Harry confirmed, hanging his head. “What’s wrong?”

“You capture beauty,” Louis said, stirring his tea. He wasn’t looking at Harry but Harry nodded anyway. “And...you reject the tedious.”

Harry made a sound of assent, unsure where this conversation was headed.

“Is that why you won’t look at me?” Louis asked, and there was a slight tremor to his voice. “Because I’m tedious?”

A wave of understanding washed over Harry and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry. “God, no, Louis.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “That is definitely not the reason.”

“Then what?” Louis sipped his tea and winced as he burned himself, glancing up at Harry again. Harry had to physically pinch himself to stop from pulling his Polaroid out again because Louis’ blue eyes over the rim of the mug had made Harry’s breath hitch and his eyes sting.

Harry hesitated, blinking rapidly, but he couldn’t stand the doubt in Louis’ stormy eyes, so he deflated, admitting, “You’re  _too_  beautiful, Louis.” He cringed; the words always sound less creepy in his head. “You were crafted for the camera, for art.”

There was a long moment of silence. Harry wanted to curl up and die. He was so ashamed; why couldn’t he find something else to obsess over? Football or music or video games...anything was better than  _beauty_.

“I make videos,” Louis said ironically, diffusing the tension. Harry smiled gratefully, sipping his coffee. “I like the camera.”

“You film...”

“Speaking of which,” Louis said, and all the apprehension and conflict in his form was gone now, like Harry’s words had completely set him at ease. Perhaps they had. “I promised my fans I’d introduce you tonight.”

Harry almost choked. “Excuse me?”

Louis pulled a face. “You know, like, a video with me?”

“I didn’t know I had to get in front of the camera with you.” Harry thought his voice was considerably calm considering the raging panic he was feeling on the inside. “There’s a reason I chose photography as a career, Lou. I don’t want to get in front of the camera. I’m too awkward and gangly and quiet and unaware and-”

“Clumsy,” Louis supplied helpfully. He shrugged when Harry didn’t respond. “It’s going to happen eventually, Harry. Why did you even sign up for this competition if you didn’t want to be plastered over the internet?”

Harry mumbled under his breath.

“Say again?”

“My sister entered me,” Harry said, louder this time. “She’s always banging on about how talented I am or whatever...she thought it would be a good idea. It didn’t occur to her that I haven’t even watched a single video of yours in my lifetime.”

Louis was quiet for a moment. “You know, I think it’s a good thing that you don’t know about me. It means you can’t judge me for all the dorky crap I’ve done on the internet in the past.”

Harry grinned, his usual shyness abating for a moment as pure curiosity won out. “Oh, now I just have to look.”

Louis groaned, his cheeks reddening. Harry felt his chest tighten with  _that_  warmth again and he tried to ignore it. “Seriously,” Louis said, “I really need this video. If you’re not comfortable or whatever, we can drink beforehand.”

Harry spluttered. “Drink?”

“You know,  _alcohol_...” Louis said slowly. “Are you not twenty-two years old, Harry Styles?”

“I know what alcohol is,” Harry responded curtly. “Are you allowed to do that? Film a video drunk?”

Louis shrugged. “It’s my channel,” he leaned back. “I’m self-employed. I am my job. Besides, you seem like the kind of guy who needs to get shit-faced before they even consider opening up even a crack...”

Harry considered it. He was in for a lot of front-lens work this week – which there was no way he’d have agreed to do if he’d known about it beforehand – and there was no better way than to get used to filming than to do it drunk in a hotel room with Louis Tomlinson. “Okay,” Harry said weakly. “Okay, great. Sounds like a plan.”

Louis seemed surprised that Harry agreed to it so easily. Harry was just looking for someone to like him. He’d spent years having no true friend – so much so that his obsession with art and photography and beauty had become almost too much to handle. Harry could use a friend, a real-life friend, someone to get drunk with and laugh with and joke around with. And there was the added bonus that Louis Tomlinson was the most beautiful person Harry had ever met. So he could be around beauty and make a friend at the same time.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Louis had set up his camera in the middle of the room and secretly pressed record – though he told Harry he wasn’t filming yet. Harry sat with his legs crossed, fiddling absently with his camera. It was a decent piece of kit, Louis had to admit, and Harry handled it the same way a mother would handle her newborn baby – with care and love, but just the right amount of firmness.

“Why do you have so many cameras, Hazza?” Louis was already tipsy – he’d started drinking long before Harry had. They’d lazily sipped at pints all afternoon, watching the American football in some pub down the road. Harry had shown quite some enthusiasm for the Packers team, moaning every time the other team got one up on them. When the game had ended, they had just chatted for a while and Louis had come to realise that Harry really was an interesting guy. There was something alluring about him, something that drew Louis to him. He was charming and gentle and there was never any level of judgment in his eyes or his voice, never any touch of negativity to him. He was like a gentle giant – he threw his weight around, gangly and awkward, but he had a softer personality than anyone Louis had ever known. It was clear right from the start that Harry Styles had a huge heart.

They’d started on the hard liquor at around 5 pm. Both of them snacked on room service – the hotel was a decent place – which consisted of pizza and salad, though Louis noticed Harry snacked more on the lettuce and cucumber.

“You’re a healthy shit,” Louis slurred, pointing accusingly. “You’re one of those health-freaks, aren’t you?”

Harry grinned, completely unhurt by the offense in Louis’ tone. “No, I just don’t want to be fat.”

“Who cares what you look like?” Louis grumbled, shoving another slice of pizza in his mouth. “Food makes me happy.”

Harry laughed then and the sound stilled Louis. He listened carefully, hearing the rich, velvety sounds of laughter echo around  the room – there was a slight growl to it; his voice was naturally deep and raspy, and that was just displaying itself through the laughter.

“I’m not beautiful enough to get away with obesity, Lou,” Harry said offhandedly, like it was a well-known fact. He leaned against the bed, scratching at his thigh.

“ _I_  think you’re a pretty boy.”

Harry dipped his head in a grateful nod, accepting but bashful of the compliment. “I think you are too.”

Later, Harry took another shot and then declared that he was going to take a shower.

“Don’t slip, clumsy,” Louis advised him, grinning moronically. “I’m not fucking coming in there to save your ass.”

“Nice to know you care about your collab partner, Tomlinson,” Harry had called, already pulling his shirt over his head as he headed into the bathroom. Louis swallowed, watching the younger boy’s muscles ripple over the planes of his back. He was broad and buff and Louis was so drunk that he couldn’t even school his emotions into something that wasn’t gay-guy-attracted-to-business-partner-because-wow-he’s-hot so he was lucky that Harry wasn’t looking at him to see it on his face. Harry crouched down in front of his suitcase before pulling out some clean clothes and then he wandered into the bathroom, humming to himself. The alcohol had clearly reached his head now as what was a shy, awkward, uncomfortable guy before was now carefree and oblivious to Louis’ attention.

“If you slip, the world wide web will know about it!” Louis shouted, reshuffling his position so he could sit directly in front of the camera. “I’m recording, you know.”

“Asshole!” Harry yelled back, but there was no anger in his voice. “I thought we were friends!”

Louis chuckled before addressing the camera, using the time Harry was showering to make his introductions. It was difficult to stay professional when all Louis wanted to do was jump on the beds and shout obscene things at the top of his lungs. He was so drunk. “Hey, it’s Louis Tomlinson here! Okay, so I’ve filmed this is in a completely different order to what I’ll probably end up editing it like. Basically, I met my Arts’ Week collab partner today and he’s like...quite timid and quiet. When I first mentioned that he’d be doing videos with me, he literally balked and refused. But I convinced him with a little help of Mr. Vodka Shots over here and so, like, he’s a little more easy to introduce. His name is Harry Styles and he’s like a gentle giant – he’s fucking cute. Adorable, even. And he called me beautiful.” Louis babbled. “I mean, that’s an instant connection, right? He’s showering now so I have this window to talk all about him without him laughing in my face.

“Basically, he doesn’t watch my videos like you guys. He didn’t even know my name – it’s great because now neither of us have the upper hand over who knows more about the other. He’s a prophographer-” Louis frowned. That word didn’t come out right. He narrowed his eyes. “ _Photographer_ ,” he corrected, super slowly. “And he only takes pictures of beauty and like rejects the tedious. That’s his motto. Um...you can follow him – I’ll put the links to his Twitter and Gram-de-Insta down belowwwwww...” Louis grinned. “So I’ll be filming the entire night and just editing the good bits in. So yeah! If you like dis vid bebz you can like subscribe to LtommoBoi and maybe even follow moi @Louis_Tomlinson on Twitter. Follow my boy Harry because he’s cool and I like him and I’ll be on ma channel all week because like Arts’ Week innit...Dis Iz Da Tommo,” he gave a lazy, drunken salute. “I’m out.”

Louis shuffled back to his position on the floor beside his bed, downing another shot as he waited for Harry. “Oi,” he yelled eventually, bored. “Hurry up, you tosser!”

Harry only turned the shower up higher and began to sing – obnoxiously. “IT’S RAINING MEN, HALLELUJAH, IT’S RAINING MEN...OH YEAH!”

Louis grinned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and swallowed his laugh. The camera was still recording and Louis had yet to choose Harry’s best bits to put in. He’d be tempted to keep this in to humiliate him, but then Harry would never trust him again.

“Harry,” Louis called, the name a little slurred from his lips. “Don’t make me come in there! I don’t want to have to spank that fine ass.”

The water shut off and Harry emerged, wrapped in a white towel. An undecipherable emotion churned in his green eyes, but his smile was soft – fond, even. “Are you gay, Louis Tomlinson?”

“One  _hundred_  percent,” Louis said easily, the alcohol making the nerves of his admittance abate. He was far too drunk to care what Harry thought about that. “Yourself?”

Harry shrugged and the towel fell lower upon his hips. “Straight, I reckon.”

“You reckon?” Louis arched an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way Harry’s v-lines cut beneath the white towel, tattooed with ferns. And the boy had abs to die for. Oh God, how was Louis ever supposed to survive a whole week with this God-like creature and  _not_  touch him? His hair fell over his eyes, sopping wet and Louis could see every single tattoo on his naked body, teasing him almost.

“Harry Styles, do you have a fucking butterfly tattoo on your chest?”

Harry looked at it and shrugged. “I don’t like it much – regret putting it on there – but meh, can’t change it now.” He didn’t seem too bothered by it, but then Harry didn’t seem too bothered by anything when he was drunk. “I have birds too, look – can you see?”

Louis could see them quite clearly but he beckoned him closer anyway, being careful to direct him away from the camera lens. He didn’t want the temptation of keeping Harry’s naked body in the video, so it was best to keep him out altogether until he was dressed.

Harry approached Louis, his hand resting on the towel, keeping it above his groin. Louis grinned cheekily, his eyes roaming Harry’s body.  _Nice abs,_  he thought.

“Thanks,” Harry rolled his eyes.

Louis flushed because he didn’t realise he’d said the words out loud. He glanced at the camera though he knew they were both off lens for the moment. Louis reached up – inhibitions lost – and traced the patterns of Harry’s tattoos on his chest, watching as his skin rippled with goosebumps. Harry shivered.

“Your hands are cold, Lou,” Harry moaned and Louis chuckled, pressing his hand against the small of Harry’s back. Harry jumped away, yelping and shivering violently and Louis shooed him back towards the bathroom.

“Get dressed before I’m tempted to ignore your supposed straightness and yank that towel from your delicious body,” Louis commanded, pushing lightly at Harry’s muscled shoulders.

Harry blushed furiously and mumbled Louis’ name a few times before he stepped back in the bathroom to pull on some boxers and sweats. Harry in sweats was a sight Louis thought he’d never get to see, but it was something to be remembered. Harry didn’t even bother to put on his shirt but he held onto it as he sat in front of the camera again, sitting beside Louis with his camera in his lap.

“Harry,” Louis moaned, yearning for an excuse to touch him again. He ran his fingers through Harry’s wet hair, pushing the sopping locks back over his head. “You’re dripping water all over your camera and I’m pretty sure that’s worth more than the week’s rent on this hotel room.”

“I hope I don’t have to pay for rent,” Harry grumbled. “It was a competition –I’m a Uni student with no freaking part-time job. I can’t afford this hotel. Have you seen how bloody pretty everything is?”

“Oi,” Louis snapped playfully. “We  _won’t_  have swearing in this room, you fucking tosser. Jesus fucking Christ, you bastard.”

Harry looked up, eyebrows raised, grinning. “Edit that out,” he said ironically and Louis was caught by his uncensored grin – he’d truly made Harry smile. The thought warmed him inside.

Louis pulled out his phone and typed out a tweet. His fingers mashed over the keyboard a few times but he did his best anyway – the alcohol was really getting to his head.

 **@Louis_Tomlinson:**  Wiv my boi @Harry_Styles for da intro vid. Send Qs. Lovin U All but very drunk. I think. Bear wiv xx

Harry looked up, raised his camera and snapped a picture of Louis, who had blinked violently at the flash. “Hah,” Harry cheered, “Even the most beautiful person in the entire world can look like a twat. Look at you.” He showed Louis the preview of the picture and Harry was right, he had blinked at the complete wrong moment and his face was so squinted it was barely recognisable. “I can’t see your eyes in this picture,” Harry complained. “Makes it pretty useless.”

“And you say you’re straight,” Louis said dubiously.

Harry’s eyes widened. “I’m not  _gay_ , Lou. I just have a good eye for beauty. And yours are beautiful.”

Louis smiled, feeling like he could never get used to Harry telling him that, and placed his chin in his hands, fluttering his eyelashes. “Am I beautiful enough to model for you now, Hazza?”

Harry froze, eyes widening with realisation. “Oh my God – Louis you can be my model for my final showcase at Uni.”

Louis pulled back, confused. “What?”

“I’ve been looking for a model for, like, weeks and I’ve wished I knew you enough to ask you to model since I took that picture of you when I ran into you last week-”

Louis turned to the camera to clue the fans in, even though it wasn’t a livestream. “Oh, by some stroke of luck, this is the tosser that ran into me in the street last week and rejected my autograph. See previous video.”

“I didn’t want your writing ruining the picture,” Harry moaned as though he’d defended himself of the same argument all night. “But the point is: now I  _do_  know you and like...I’m currently filming something that I’m probably going to regret in the morning for you – you can model for me in return?”

Louis knew he was going to do it from the moment Harry mentioned the words. There was so much hope in Harry’s eyes, so much reverence that Louis would have to be either heartless or stupid to refuse. Nonetheless, he enjoyed fucking with people, so he leaned forward and met Harry’s gaze. Even drunk, he was conscious of how close they were, conscious of how pretty Harry’s face was. He wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to have Harry’s lips on his before he remembered that he was out of bounds. Business partner. Wrong team. He tried to tell himself that he’d prioritised the two reasons wrong, but he didn’t really care for Harry’s sexuality. Louis had kissed straight guys before.

“I’ll do it on one condition,” Louis agreed, trying his best to put on a serious face, despite the fact that he was pissing himself on the inside.

“Anything,” Harry breathed – his pupils had dilated and Louis noticed his eyes kept drifting to Louis’ mouth; perhaps he was worried Louis was going to try and kiss him. Louis wanted to, but he wasn’t stupid. He had to work with this guy for the next week.

Still, this was fun. “Anything?” He asked, eyebrows raised. Harry didn’t respond; he seemed to be holding his breath; he was so still. Louis let out a small sigh, as though he was admitting something he’d been holding back for years. “It  _has_  to be a nude shoot.”

Harry blushed and pushed Louis away. “ _No_ , Lou, it’s not that kind of shoot!”

Louis howled with laughter, shoulders shaking. “I’m fucking with you, Harry. Of course I’ll do it.”

Harry shoved him again and Louis fell, his elbow buckling from the unexpected shift of weight. His face hit Harry’s bare chest as he fell into him and Harry tensed.

Louis wasn’t sure if he had crossed a line – despite the fact that it was Harry’s fault he slipped – and he lifted his head carefully to assess Harry’s face; his mind was playing on repeat  _‘Must edit this out. Must edit this out. Must edit this out.’_  He couldn’t deny that he lingered a little too long in the curve of Harry’s neck, burying his face in Harry’s chest. He smelled so good and he was soft and practically  _radiated_  warmth. Still, Harry might be offended by the breach in personal space, especially seeing as they’d only known each other one day.

But Harry didn’t seem fazed. He lifted a large hand to Louis’ head, ruffling his hair, before settling him straight again, muttering a “sorry, Lou,” for pushing him over. Louis grinned, because if this guy could be so easy and pliant and soft whilst drunk...surely there was a part of him that was like that when he was sober.

“Why do you have so many different cameras, Harry?” Louis asked again, remembering that Harry didn’t answer the question last time. He opened his Twitter app once more. There had to be some good questions on board now.

“I have four. One’s a backup – I left it back in my dorm. This one is my professional one; I use it for my career and contracted work. I have my travel cam – it’s a digital, cheap thing, but it’s nice for like, just getting normal photos of nice things. And there’s my Polaroid.”

“Polaroid boy,” Louis sang under his breath. He watched Harry lean across the floor to retrieve it from his bed. The muscles in Harry’s arms flexed and Louis could see the ladder of his ribs as he stretched. His tanned skin was smooth and unblemished and Louis just wanted to touch, feel,  _touch_.

“My Polaroid is reserved for the most beautiful of beautiful things,” Harry announced childishly. “Because the ink and the photo paper is expensive so I don’t like to waste it. I don’t ever use it at work – it’s for my sole enjoyment, a hobby, and it means a lot to me. I have a journal type thing – I stick all my photos in there and write like a little excerpt about how I felt when I took the picture or what I was doing. I look back over it sometimes when I’m bored or sad or whatever. It’s nice.”

Louis pulled his sleeve over his hand nervously and covered his timid grin with his sheathed palm. Harry had taken a picture of  _him_  with that Polaroid. Twice.  “You are the dorkiest twat. Cute...but dorky. And so fucking hipster it physically hurts me.”

Harry shrugged, unhurt. “I think it’s good to be different,” he said quietly.

Louis could sense that Harry didn’t want to talk about his cameras anymore, so he shifted his attention back to Twitter. “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve eaten?” He asked, reading randomly from a fan’s question.

Harry thought for a moment and Louis muttered jokingly, “Mine is cock.”

Harry choked, flushing a deep red. “Louis,” he protested. “You can’t say that on like, live filming or whatever...”

Louis smiled because this boy was too fucking cute for Louis to deal with. “It’s not live, Haz. I’ll edit it when we’re done in like...a bit, I don’t know. I get to choose what stays in and what comes out. Besides, my viewers are used to me saying all sorts.”

Harry still looked mortified. “I could never be a YouTuber. ‘M too private.”

“You still didn’t answer the question,” Louis pointed out, grinning at Harry’s utter embarrassment. Louis supposed he should be grateful that he hadn’t been given a homophobic, cocky twat for a partner, but he was almost too resentful that Harry wasn’t  _homosexual_  to be grateful. Why give someone as physically attractive as Harry Styles and not let Louis taste him? The world was so unfair.

“I ate like a deep fried grasshopper once,” Harry said, pulling a face. “It was not nice. Not everything tastes good deep fried, apparently.”

“That’s disgusting,” Louis said, laughing.

“Your nose wrinkles when you laugh,” Harry noted, pointing. He picked up his professional cam and snapped a picture before Louis could even react. “And Gemma made me do it – I didn’t  _choose_  to eat it.”

“That’s your sister?” Louis asked, sighing because if Harry was going to insist on taking a shitload of crappy photos of him all week, then he was going to be truly insufferable.

“My older sister, yeah,” Harry frowned. “I’m going to upload this to Instagram, I think.”

“What, no!” Louis protested. “Why do I have to go on your Instagram? Don’t ruin that!”

“Ruin what?”

“Your Instagram...you have really beautiful pictures on there, Harry. I’d just ruin it.”

“No, you won’t. Why can’t you accept that you’re beautiful, too?” Harry shook his head disbelievingly before a slow grin spread over his face and his eyes lit with realisation. “You’ve been snooping through my sites, haven’t you?”

Louis didn’t even have the dignity to look ashamed. “Yeah, I did.”

Harry threw a pillow at him and Louis giggled, hugging the cushion close. “At least I play fair!” Harry wailed, teasingly. “I didn’t have a clue who you were and you’re stalking me!”

“I am not  _stalking_  you!” Louis shouted. “You don’t even have a picture of yourself on there! I didn’t have a clue who you were either. You should post a selfie or something...”

Harry made a sound of disgust. “Selfies are the most ugliest thing in the history of ugly.”

Intrigued because Louis had thought Harry didn’t take selfies out of shyness as opposed to distaste, he stopped. “What makes you say that?”

Harry hesitated. “They’re...like...really forced. You can never capture beauty when it’s forced. And like, they’ve just become this thing where everyone feels like they have to be better than everyone else – like, look better. With nice legs and hair and body and stuff. I just don’t like them. They hide every ounce of true beauty within someone.”

“Let  _me_  take a picture of  _you_ , then.” Louis reached for his camera but Harry flinched away, cradling his camera up to his chest protectively. Louis waited patiently for Harry to explain his reaction, tapping his fingers gently against his thigh.

“My camera is my baby, Lou,” Harry whined. “No one touches it. I never trust anyone with my kit.”

Louis winked because it was difficult to ignore the innuendo there. Harry sighed and his never-receding blush deepened. He gave Louis a withering look.

“Besides, I don’t want my picture up,” Harry said. “My Instagram is for beautiful things only.”

“I think you’re beautiful, Harry,” Louis murmured quietly. He hadn’t meant for the words to slip out, but now that they had, Louis wondered for what wasn’t the first time if he’d crossed some unspoken line between them. Apparently, there was no line, because Harry didn’t seem offended at all.

“You’re just saying that,” Harry mumbled. “’M not beautiful.”

Louis couldn’t stand the insecurity in Harry’s tone, the sadness in his eyes. Drunk or not, Louis would have done what he did next. He leaned over and placed his hand on Harry’s cheek, lifting his head so their gazes met.

“I’m gay, Harry,” Louis said carefully. “So by definition, I’m attracted to boys. That means I’ve seen a lot of men – I’ve seen their faces and their bodies and their cocks. I’ve seen their personalities, too. Now, I know I haven’t seen your body – excluding these  _glorious_  abs – and I haven’t seen your cock. But I’ve seen the way you look at the world; you enjoy it and you savour it and you treasure it. That’s beautiful, Harry.” He still didn’t look reassured, though, so Louis did something a little riskier, the alcohol in his veins coaxing him to touch Harry in ways he never would sober. He ran his hand through Harry’s hair – still wet from the shower – revelling in the feel of the damp locks curling over his hand. His chest swelled with warmth when Harry leaned unconsciously into the touch. “Your hair is beautiful, your eyes are beautiful, your mouth-” Louis choked because he couldn’t really say what he truly wanted to say about Harry’s mouth – that he wanted it on him, on every inch of him, that he wanted Harry to taste him and to let him do the same. “I think you’re beautiful, Harry.”

“You’d be the first,” Harry muttered but then he brightened. “Are there any more questions on Twitter?”

Louis sat back, not taking his eyes from Harry. It was easy to see that the younger boy was a whirlwind drunk; he went from happily belting out cheesy tunes in the shower and confidently walking around the hotel room naked to quietly reminiscing over his cameras and wavering in self-assuredness and drowning in his own insecurities. But now, insecurities forgotten, he was prying Louis’ phone from his hand. “Louis...” he whined. “I want to play games!”

Louis smirked. “What are you, five?”

Harry pouted, his bottom lip jutting out. Louis sucked in a sharp breath, trying desperately to ignore the pang of desire in his lower stomach. He knew he had to edit most of this out – he couldn’t have the viewers seeing any part of drunk Harry that sober Harry would be ashamed of – but he wasn’t too upset about that.  _He_ was seeing Harry like this. Drunk and playful and young and clingy – Harry was being flirty, even. Seeing him like this, that was Louis’ privilege and no one else’s.

The camera snapped in Harry’s hand, metal clicking together, and Harry pulled back his finger with a sharp intake of breath, his face flushing. “ _Ouch_ ,” he hissed. He placed his finger between his lips, sucking the blood from his cut until his cheeks were hollowed by the effort and  _fuck_  if that didn’t turn Louis on because all he could imagine was Harry sucking on his dick instead, his beautiful lips stretched around  his girth. Louis shook the thought off.  Completely oblivious to Louis’ inner battle of wills, Harry’s shoulders sank with dismay and he pouted, shaking his head sadly. “Camera...why must you hurt me so?”

Louis didn’t think he’d ever seen anything as adorable as the betrayed, injured sulk that came over Harry’s face then.

“I’m sure the camera didn’t mean it.” Louis said, trying to keep a straight face.

Harry lunged for Louis, apparently already over his camera’s betrayal, wrapping his arms around Louis’ shoulders, green eyes blurry with drunken exhaustion. “Give me some questions, Lou. I feel like we need to answer questions."

Louis could barely think clearly; he was too busy inhaling Harry’s scent, absorbing his warmth as he rested his head against Harry’s bicep. Harry was too drunk to judge Louis for taking advantage of Harry’s clinging gentleness, so Louis stayed there, just cherishing him. As much as he wished he could spend the rest of the night teasing Harry and spouting innuendos, he knew he had to at least get some relevant career-based content in the video – the only reason they were working together was because of Arts’ Week, after all.

“What do you want to do with your photography, Haz?” Louis asked, pulling out of the embrace so he could edit the hug out without losing the question.

He shrugged, eyes glazed over. “I want to take pictures of beautiful things for the rest of my life.”

“What, like fashion?” Louis prompted. “Nature? Landscapes?”

“Like  _anything_.” Harry said, throwing his hands out in an over-exaggerated gesture. His lips twisted over the words with overstated slowness and they were slicked with his saliva – he had a habit of running his tongue over his lips, a habit that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Louis.

“You have to produce a project for this week, Harry,” Louis reminded gently. “Do you have any ideas what you’re going to do?”

Harry squinted at Louis like he was struggling to understand. “I could just make a collage of you,” he said matter-of-factly and Louis tried to ignore the flipping of his stomach, “but I don’t think that’s what that aspire-y charity meant, really. I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just um...I’ll think about it – it’s a  _surprise_!” His eyes widened, filmy with clouded thoughts and bright with jade green. Louis could stare at his eyes all day.

“Which event are you most looking forward to attending?” Louis asked, sitting back against his bed. He watched Harry with a small smile playing at his lips, because Harry really was oblivious to his own prettiness. Though Louis’ mind was clouded with hazy drunkenness, he could still admire Harry as he had when they first met. The boy was so pretty, Louis could scarcely breathe. His hair was drying in a fuzzy halo around his head and his green eyes sheened with barely-concealed excited tiredness. His long, tattooed fingers messed with the camera that sat absently in his lap, cushioned by his t-shirt, which Louis was sure Harry had intended to put on the moment he sat down. Louis took in Harry’s bare chest, revelling over the smooth, tanned skin, marred only by his quirky tattoos over his arms, shoulders and torso. As Louis watched, Harry lurched forward to pick up the bottle of vodka and he unscrewed the lid. Louis groaned – it was going to be a nightmare to edit the alcohol label out of the video.

Harry tilted the bottle over his empty shot glass with calculated precision, but his hand was shaking slightly and he was biting his lip so hard that Louis almost wanted to reach over and free his mouth with his thumb – or his own mouth. Whichever suited.

“Oops,” Harry breathed, as he overshot and the alcohol spilled over the hotel floor. “Shit. Oh, well, they’ve had worse things to clean up – people have probably done like all sorts in here.”

Louis tried not to flush at the thought of  _him and Harry_  doing all sorts in here.

“Um,” Harry downed his shot, gasping and wincing as the alcohol passed down his throat. Louis was transfixed by the bump in Harry’s neck, bobbing as he swallowed. What he wouldn’t do to kiss his neck, to mark him up, claim him. “Event I’m most looking forward to...” Harry beamed. “Definitely the art gallery. It’s going to be much quieter than the red carpet stuff. I don’t like...all the attention that gets. It scares me.”

Louis’ chest tightened because, though Harry said it matter-of-factly, there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes, a worry. “You’ll have me,” he reassured him quietly. “I won’t let the paparazzi make you feel uncomfortable, Haz.”

Harry pointed a shaky finger at Louis. “I like you, Louis Tomlinson,” he slurred, blinking slowly. “I think you’re very nice.”

Louis couldn’t hide his grin. He beamed, feeling it stretch his mouth, and said, “come on, you twat. Let’s get you to bed.” He stood and walked over to the camera, turning it off before taking it from its tripod and throwing it on his bed. He had a lot of fast editing to do if he was going to get this video up before midnight.

Harry looked forlornly at his bed. “I’m not going to be able to sleep. I get nightmares in unfamiliar beds, Lou.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” Louis said, thinking of the amount of shots the boy had taken that night. He was infinitely more intoxicated than Louis – that was for sure. It was a wonder he hadn’t already passed out. Louis knew he would when he hit the pillow, though.

Harry mumbled something, his fingers fumbling over the drawstring of his sweats. He gave a small, pitiful whine, his fringe fluttering as Harry sighed with his lip jutted out. He looked like a little boy. How was it possible to be so freaking cute and hot at the same time?

“What is it?” Louis asked, placing a hand against the boy’s arm when he stumbled slightly.

“I can’t do m’sweats, Lou,” Harry said sadly, like it was the most tragic thing in the entire world. “They’re too knotted. I sleep in my boxers.”

 _Wow_. If that wasn’t going to be a test of Louis’ self-restraint all week, he didn’t know what was. The thought of Harry sleeping in nothing but boxers was already doing something hot to Louis’ groin and he tried not to look Harry in the eye as he strode over to him and batted his hands away. He worked on the knot – honestly, Harry was looking at him like he was his saviour or something – and tried to ignore the way that Harry sucked in a sharp breath when Louis knuckles grazed his abs, or the way Harry seemed to shiver when Louis tugged the sweats over Harry’s hips and let them fall to the floor.

Louis was transfixed by Harry. There was no point in trying to calm his raging lust down – he was hard for Harry and he wasn’t ashamed of it. Harry’s body was exquisite. Still, he kind of hoped Harry was too drunk to notice the tent in Louis’ pants; they still had to spend the rest of the week together.

Louis still hadn’t stepped away from Harry – he couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from Harry’s body. Despite the curly-haired boy being two years younger than him, he towered over Louis, enough so that Louis found himself staring at Harry’s chest, his gaze following the patterns of the butterfly tattoo in the centre of his torso. Now that he was up close, he could see that it looked more like a moth. He wasn’t sure what the difference was – he was too tipsy to care.

“You have beautiful legs, Harry,” Louis blabbed and he bit his lip to keep from saying more. It was an accident that he’d said as much as he had already. His hands itched to trace the thin band of Harry’s boxers; he wanted to touch him, to please him, to dip his fingers under the material and caress the smooth, hot skin of Harry’s ass. He wanted that more than anything – so badly.

But Harry was straight – or so he claimed to be – and Louis could never dream of betraying Harry’s trust like that.

“Maybe you should take a picture of them then,” Harry giggled, biting his lip. “Because I capture beauty; reject the tudors.”

“Tedious,” Louis corrected, refusing to mention that Harry’s words didn’t even make any sense.

Harry frowned, two little lines forming between his eyes, and his lips parted. “That’s what I said.”

Louis shook his head, pushing him lightly towards his bed. “You’re a little shit,” he said, but he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his tone. He was sporting such a hard on and half of his mind was focusing on how he was going to get rid of  _that_  without Harry knowing. This week was going to be hard enough as it was without Louis developing a ridiculous over-bearing attraction for the gangly, soft giant of a boy next to him. He didn’t want to have to worry about stealing secretive wanks every few hours because he couldn’t contain his own lust.

“That’s not very nice.”

“You’re  _drunk_ ,” Louis chuckled.

Harry stilled, utterly confused. “No, I’m Harry.” He turned around and held his hand out. “Harry Styles...Louis, my head feels weird. All blurry and I can’t think very straight.”

“What are you trying to think about?”

“You’re very beautiful,” Harry told him sincerely. “But I can’t decide if you’re too beautiful – like, perfect. And then there’s this problem...I can’t think past it.”

“What’s the problem?”

Harry seemed to see right through Louis, but also seemed to simultaneously see  _inside_  him. His eyes were steady and sincere and genuine, but there was so much innocence in his face – he clearly couldn’t retain the thoughts within his head; they kept spilling from his lips. Harry was an open drunk – there was no secret he could keep whilst the alcohol burned in his bloodstream. Louis almost felt guilty prying the secrets from his unguarded mind -  _almost_. The guilt was instantly eradicated when Harry spoke.

“I wonder what your mouth tastes like, Lou,” Harry said idly, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Louis was trying to ignore the way his skin felt like fire and his blood was rushing to his groin and his face and igniting him from the inside out. “I think any guy that has tasted your lips is a very lucky guy.”

“You can taste them, Harry,” Louis muttered casually, “I won’t mind.”  _You can taste_ all _of me,_ Louis thought feverishly, but then he wanted to kick himself because he had a feeling there wasn’t much he wouldn’t let this boy do to him. For only knowing him for one day, Harry had certainly gotten under Louis’ skin.

Harry frowned – not out of judgment, but almost like he was berating himself. “No, I can’t,” he mumbled back, “I’m straight – I think.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Right.” He pushed Harry with enough force that he fell on his bed, head hitting the wall. He scowled and rubbed at it, moaning Louis’ name as though it was his fault Harry had injured himself. Louis supposed it kind of was; he felt a little at fault. He let himself run his hands through Harry’s hair once, telling himself he was just checking for lumps and bruises. He revelled in the damp softness before he squeezed his shoulder and said, “Night, Harry.”

“I won’t sleep, Lou,” Harry moaned, eyes wide. “I don’t sleep in unfamiliar places.”

Louis smiled fondly. “Try, baby,” he said, the nickname falling off his lips without conscious thought. The words barely made a sound, however – he’d hardly even whispered – and he wasn’t even sure if Harry heard him. Harry seemed to understand though, because a small, contented smile drifted over his lips and he turned to face the wall, his eyes closing.

Without Harry’s captivating green eyes staring at him, Louis found it a lot easier to walk away. He grabbed his laptop and the wire for his camera and settled himself on his bed; he had so much editing to do. Just as he flicked the main light off – keeping his nightlight on – he heard Harry’s whispered words.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being...I don’t know...accommodating.”

Louis couldn’t explain the melancholy feeling of longing inside him, but  _fuck_  did it hurt.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, an update! 
> 
> It's getting juicier....

Louis suspected he’d only had about an hour’s sleep after he’d finished uploading the video before he was woken by the sound of a camera shutter followed by a muffled curse. His eyes opened blearily. He was facing the wall, the duvet pulled up to his chin and his earphones had slipped from his head, the music humming quietly in the silence on the pillow next to him.

Louis turned over, glancing at the alarm clock. It was two a.m. He’d hardly had an hour’s sleep – Harry’d had three – but now the younger boy was sat in the middle of the room on the floor, legs crossed, professional camera in his hand. Louis didn’t react for a moment; he didn’t really know what to say. Harry hadn’t noticed he was awake yet, so Louis took the moment to watch him, despite the banging alcohol-induced headache thudding behind his eyes.

Harry hadn’t dressed – he was still in his boxers, the skin of his stomach creased slightly as he hunched over his camera. Sketches and photos were spread out around him and Louis was oddly reminded of a squirrel collecting nuts. Harry had a habit of collecting pictures, apparently. His hair fell over his bleary, green eyes and he ran a hand over his fringe, pushing it back. He reached for a picture, stared at it for a moment, and then placed it down gently, humming softly with discontent. Louis couldn’t tell if he was still drunk or not – whether he’d slept the alcohol off – but he looked so open on the floor, so unguarded, that Louis could watch him forever.

As it was, they had a fashion designer to visit at nine a.m. that morning and the cameras would be rolling at seven. They had little over four hours before they were expected to be raring to go, and Louis doubted Harry’d had enough sleep to stay awake for the following day.

“Harry,” Louis said softly, his voice cracking with exhaustion. “What are you doing, love?”

Harry’s head shot up, his eyes wide as he surveyed Louis. He grimaced guiltily, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “I have to work, Lou,” he said, gesturing to the pieces spread out around him. “I’ve got a project to plan for this week and a showcase to submit.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Louis pointed out, pulling his duvet over his shoulder as the cold night’s breeze whistled through the open window, raising goosebumps on his skin. He was wearing a tank top and cotton pants but it still wasn’t enough to keep the chill away.

Harry shrugged sadly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Louis didn’t say anything. Their eyes met and Louis could see the exhaustion in Harry’s green eyes but also a measure of discomfort that wasn’t there two hours ago. Harry wasn’t drunk anymore, but he wasn’t one hundred percent sober, either.

Harry opened his mouth again, his tongue running across his bottom lip briefly before he spoke. “’M sorry I woke you. You should try and get back to sleep.”

“So should you,” Louis argued gently. Their words were hushed, neither daring to break the sleepy atmosphere. “You’ll have time to do the work tomorrow.”

Harry wrung his fingers in his lap, knocking the camera slightly. He looked down at it, lost in thought.

Louis couldn’t stand how small Harry looked; sitting on the bedroom floor with his art sprawled everywhere. There was something so vulnerable about him – perhaps it was the subconscious pout to his lips or the hunched shoulders or the fact that the ends of his hair were still damp. “You can sleep in here if it’ll help.” Louis didn’t realise he’d spoken the words out loud until Harry looked up at him in surprise. Louis tried not to show his embarrassment and he lifted up the edge of the duvet, nodding his head. “You’ll be tired if you don’t sleep, Harry."

Harry’s eyes appraised him and Louis got that weird feeling again – the feeling that Harry was both seeing through him and inside of him. Louis thought he saw a glimmer of hope in his green eyes, but Harry ducked his head before he could truly catch it, hiding his gaze from view.

“I don’t want you to, like, get the wrong idea.” Harry mumbled. “I’m straight.”

The words seemed to weigh heavier on Louis’ shoulders; perhaps it was because they were uttered from a sober mouth as opposed to a drunken one. Louis tried to ignore the stab of hurt in his stomach – Harry didn’t trust him. He tried to play his injured flinch off with a joke, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’re pretty, but you’re not  _that_  pretty.”

Harry gave a hesitant smile. “I know,” he said softly. “Not as pretty as you.”

Louis was beginning to get a little frustrated; the guy was convinced he was straight, but then he was making off-hand comments like that which were just serving as a nuisance to Louis because they shot straight to his groin, heating his thoughts. “I need to sleep, Harry,” he reminded him, an edge to his voice. “So can you hurry up and make your mind up where you’re sleeping, please?”

Harry hesitated. Eventually, he sighed, deflating, and moved the camera from his lap back in to its bag, unclipping the lens and closing shutters and flicking switches that Louis would never understand. When the bag was zipped, Harry stood and uncertainty flashed over his features as he eyed Louis in his tank top and pants.

He waved his thumb over his shoulder, eyeing his own clothes – crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the bed – and said, “Should I?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Just get in, Haz.” He tried to ignore the selfish part of his brain that told him he wanted Harry to sleep next to him clad in just boxers, he cherished the idea that Harry was almost  _naked_  – just a thin layer of material between them.

Harry nodded, pulling Louis from his thoughts. “Right.” He pulled the duvet back, and Louis shuffled over to the wall, letting Harry have some room. He tried to ignore the brushing of Harry’s arm against his as he climbed in, tried to ignore the flaming heat that almost seemed to crackle between them. Harry crossed his arms over his chest, letting his head rest tentatively on Louis’ shoulder. Louis could feel Harry’s long hair brushing his arm but he didn’t care; the feeling was nice – the boy just oozed comfort and warmth, despite his awkward hesitance.

Louis plugged his earphones back into his ears, replaying the playlist. He turned the volume right down though, because the sound of Harry’s low, steady breathing was more than enough remedy for Louis’ sleeplessness. Louis turned his face into Harry’s hair, subtly breathing in the scent of the boy. He still smelled of warmth and autumn and spice and mint, but there was a faint mix of vodka involved too and the scent was almost overwhelming for Louis, who was trying very hard not to think about how attractive Harry was, how his naked chest looked so firm next to him, how Harry’s crotch was so close to Louis’ – if Louis shifted just a little bit, his hip would brush Harry’s. Louis yearned for the friction, for some kind of relief, because he was so  _hard_  and it was so wrong.

 _Stop_   _it_ , he berated himself.  _Business Partner. Wrong team._

It didn’t matter how much he tried, however, the thoughts just wouldn’t go away. He wanted to be closer to Harry, to touch him, to feel him. Louis wanted to run his hands over Harry’s chest, press his lips to his pulse-point, push his hips against Harry’s groin and  _move_...

“Shut up,” he growled, twisting away from Harry to lie on his stomach. He pressed his face into the pillow, hoping to suffocate the thoughts from his mind.

Harry lifted his head to survey Louis sleepily – he was just drifting off when Louis shifted positions. “Lou?” He asked tentatively.

“I’m okay – just trying to shut my fucking head up,” Louis grumbled, not lifting his face from the pillow. Harry stilled beside him before moving again, shifting his weight across the bed. Louis didn’t dare look at Harry – not when he was trying to lose his raging erection.

“You have a hangover?”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut; Harry thought he had a freaking headache. Louis wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“No, I’m just thinking.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “About what?” But when Louis didn’t respond, he said, “You can talk to me if you want – I won’t, like, judge you or tell anyone. But I understand if you don’t want to. We barely know each other after all.”

Louis placed his hand on the duvet to check it was covering his waist before turning over to face him. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his lips pressing into a flat line. He would have looked angry were it not for the appreciative film in his eyes. Louis had quickly come to recognise that expression; Harry always looked that way when he admired something beautiful.

The thought didn’t help Louis’ problem at all. In fact, it seemed to fuel it, and Louis’ cheeks flushed.

Harry still had his arms crossed over his chest, but his head rested on the headstand of the bed now as he surveyed Louis with careful eyes.

“Have you slept with people before, Harry?”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?” He asked cautiously, and Louis realised there were two different meanings to that question.

“Like, actually sleeping. Have you done that before?”

Harry bit his lip and Louis wanted to shout at him, or punch him or kiss him because –  _fuck_  – he was driving Louis crazy.

After a small hesitation, Harry nodded. “Only girls. We didn’t do anything.” He clarified.

 _Right_ , Louis thought bitterly. Harry was straight. Louis wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to Harry about this anymore, but he couldn’t keep it to himself, not when Harry was looking so earnest and hopeful and confused. Louis cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you ever...like...get, maybe,  _hard_  around them? Even if you didn’t do anything with them?”

“We were just friends.”Harry looked away, flushing deeply.

“So...” Louis was expecting Harry to say yes, to understand Louis’ predicament, but instead – much to his dismay – Harry shook his head.

“No, I didn’t.” Harry said clearly and Louis could see the truth in his eyes. “Sometimes I wished I could but like...they were just friends.”

“You never wanted more from them?”

Harry frowned. “No.”

Louis sighed, collapsing back against the pillow. How could he explain what he was thinking when Harry had never experienced it himself?

Harry wasn’t going to let the conversation drop, however. “Was there, like, a reason you brought this up?” He sounded confused, genuinely pure.

Louis’ eyes met Harry’s again and Louis felt dark desire explode within him – like a nebula exploding before it shrank in on itself, like a nuclear bomb, lust sizzled in his blood, igniting his nerves and making him feel pretty damn frustrated if he was honest.

“Fuck you, Harry,” Louis whispered as Harry ran his tongue over his lips nervously. “Fuck your innocence and your prettiness and your clumsiness and your gentleness. Fuck your eyes and your hair, your big hands and your fucking  _mouth_. Fuck you, Harry.  _Fuck you_.”

Harry looked taken aback. “Um,” he said awkwardly and – damn, the fool – he lifted his hands to his face, turning them over as he inspected them. “My hands?”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis moaned, and he turned over, burying his face into the pillow once more. “You’re an idiot.”

Harry sighed, resting his hands on his abs as he turned his head to Louis. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

“Because I don’t want you to go.” Louis hadn’t meant to say the words – fuck, was he still drunk? – but they came out anyway and Harry smiled, pleased.

“’M not,” Harry said simply. “I’m quite comfortable, actually. Before you decided to become a fidget, there was actually a high chance of me falling asleep.”

Louis exhaled, defeated. “Can you touch me?” He cringed, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. He kept his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him – he didn’t want to see the reaction on Harry’s face. “I just...I’m cold.” It was part of the truth. Not necessarily the whole of it, but still.

Harry didn’t move for what felt like eternity. Louis wanted to leap from this bed and run away, to demand that Aspire Gen transferred Harry to another YouTuber, but he also wanted to turn around and face Harry, run his hands over the younger boy’s tattoos, let his lips brush over Harry’s slicked mouth, feel Harry’s touch in areas that hadn’t been touched like that in a long time.

He wanted it so fucking much. He’d never wanted anyone like this before.

Nonetheless, he ignored his desires and stayed very still, until Harry slid his arms around his waist, unconsciously pulling Louis towards him. Louis closed his eyes because this couldn’t be happening – Harry was holding him so close that Louis could feel every contour of Harry’s well-carved chest against his back.  Louis tucked his head into Harry’s shoulder, feeling the bigger boy’s curly hair brush his neck. Louis could feel Harry’s breath against the back of his ear – small, warm, regular breaths – and for a moment, Louis couldn’t think straight.

Louis tilted his hips away from Harry’s; he couldn’t bear the thought of Harry’s crotch  brushing against his ass, not when Louis was already so worked up.

The way they were touching, the way Harry was holding him close – protectively, almost – it was almost too much but also not enough. Harry was like forbidden fruit. He didn’t want to be touched the way Louis wanted to touch him and that was going to play on Louis’ mind all fucking week.

Fuck Harry.

 

-*-

 

When the cameramen barrelled their way into the room at seven o’clock the next morning, Harry wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or grateful. Though he was facing the wall, with his eyes shut and the duvet covering his near-naked body, he was very sure of one thing: Louis was no longer in his arms. 

Once Louis had asked Harry to touch him last night, Harry had finally understood what was wrong. He’d been hesitant – Louis was gay and Harry was, well,  _not_  – and he hadn’t been sure if it was wise to lead Louis on like that. But then he’d seen the goosebumps on Louis’ arms, the slight flush to his cheeks, the numbed blue hue of his lips, and Harry realised that it didn’t matter if Louis was aroused or not, Harry didn’t really have much of a choice. He couldn’t let Louis shiver next to him all night.

Of course, when he tucked Louis into his chest, Harry hadn’t expected his own body’s reaction. While Louis had drifted off, snuggling into Harry’s shoulder, the music buzzing softly from his earphones, Harry stayed awake. His arms had tightened around Louis and it wasn’t out of subconscious comfort – Harry  _wanted_  Louis to be closer, to feel the curve of his spine flush against Harry’s bare chest. His mind had run a mile a minute, unsettling thoughts churning in his brain, spinning the contents of his stomach. The hangover didn’t help much apart from serving as a filter between the drunken thoughts and the sober ones.

Harry wasn’t gay. He really wasn’t. It wasn’t that he had a problem with gays – quite the contrary, Harry was proud of open gays; it took a lot of bravery to face the homophobic people of the world. It’s just...Harry didn’t like guys that way. He’d never looked at Liam like that, or Zayn – well, Zayn was different; his beauty set him apart from other men – and Harry had never before found himself wishing that he could touch another man the way he caught himself wishing he could touch Lou-

 _No_ , Harry thought, gritting his teeth together.  _No, I don’t think of Louis like that._

“Hazza, mate,” Louis shouted and Harry jumped, the noise piercing the silence of the room. “Cameras are rolling, it’s a beautiful day and we have a meeting to attend in little under two hours! Ass out of bed, now!”

Harry groaned, burying his head in the pillows. “Lou,” he moaned, his voice cracking slightly. “Go away.”

He could almost feel the weight of the cameras on him; the cameramen shuffled around – not speaking, which happened to be a dead giveaway that they were filming him – and Harry was sure he’d seen a glimpse of a microphone pole above his head when he’d opened his eyes. A  _microphone_  pole. Seriously? Harry wasn’t sure he could even string two words together for it to record let alone play his part as he should.

There was a small shift of weight on the bed, the mattress dipping by Harry’s hips. He opened his eyes to see Louis offering him a glass of water and some pills –  _Advil_ , Harry thought gratefully. He took them, ignoring Louis’ controversial wink, and swallowed them down, hoping they’d chase away the pounding headache behind his eyes. He expected Louis to move away again – since the cameras were trained on them, and all – but he didn’t. He stayed there, staring.

Harry stared back. Louis’ hair was muzzled from sleep, the ends sticking up in all sorts of directions and his lips were parted – Harry shied away from accompanying thoughts about Louis’ mouth – already, he couldn’t handle the stirring in his stomach thinking about it. The line of Louis’ jaw would have been much sharper if it wasn’t for his smatter of facial hair, blurring across his chin. Harry didn’t mind though – he wondered briefly what it felt like to have Louis’ rough cheek against his before he quelled the thought – Louis was the type of person who could pull off almost any look and still be as beautiful as he was before.

Louis blinked, the stormy colour of his eyes brightening to a pale blue. “Harry...” he coaxed gently, unable to hide his playful smirk. “It’s time to get up.”

“Are you always so cheerful in the morning?” Harry mumbled, his voice deepened by his sleepiness.

Louis grinned. “Nope,” he announced primly. “But I’m really fucking excited today because we’re going to a fashion show tonight and Jean Vans is going to be there and we might get to meet him.”

“A fashion show,” Harry said dubiously. He couldn’t deny he was curious. “ _You’re_  excited for a fashion show?”

Louis stood and yanked on Harry’s wrist, tugging him across the bed. Harry wasn’t worried about falling off – he could easily pull back and the smaller boy would never be able to budge him. Perks of being tall and broad, he guessed.

“I don’t like fashion much,” Louis admitted; Harry couldn’t understand how confident and comfortable he was in front of the cameras in the room. Harry felt like he was going to die with mortification and he’d barely even said anything. “But Jean Vans, Harry!”

“Jeans who?”

Louis rolled his eyes, gave one final tug on Harry’s wrist, and gave up, sighing. “Incredibly gay, incredibly sexy, incredibly influential fashion designer. You think  _I’ve_  done work for the LGBTQ community, you should see him. He’s practically the  _face_  of it.”

Harry frowned and glanced towards the cameramen. “Could you, um, not point the cameras at me while I head to the shower? I’m only wearing...erm...boxers.” Harry could feel the heat burning his cheeks at the admission. “Please?” He added quieter. He could feel the dead taste of alcohol in his mouth and – though he showered last night – the flavour made him feel as though all of him was like that – drunk and stale and dirty.

The cameramen faced Louis, shoving more lenses in his face than Harry had ever worked with – and he was a  _photographer_. Louis didn’t seem to care though; Harry supposed he was used to having attention on him. Being internet famous must be difficult and Louis probably struggled finding time for just himself.

Harry resolved to ask him about that.

He pulled back the duvet tentatively, feeling an unexpected wave of satisfaction when he caught Louis staring at the place where the band of his boxers met the v-lines of his hips. He quickly shoved the feeling down when Louis cleared his throat and looked away. They were being  _watched_ , for Christ’s sake. Why couldn’t Louis just keep his eyes to himself?

But Harry didn’t really like  _that_  idea, either. What was happening to him?

He padded off to the bathroom with the duvet wrapped around his hips. He could feel his blood flushing the skin at the back of his neck almost as well as he could feel Louis’ eyes on him, even as he stepped into the bathroom. Harry felt strangely exposed but also quite comfortable under the scrutiny of his roommate; he wondered what it would feel like to have Louis’ eyes on him in other circumstances – when they were both naked, perhaps, and Louis was using his beautiful mouth to-

 _Whoa_. Harry’s eyes widened and he quickly shut the bathroom door, hiding himself from view. He bolted the lock, resting his head against the cool wood of the bathroom wall. He dropped the duvet to the floor, the faint sound of Louis talking casually to the cameramen filtering through the thin walls. Harry tugged off his boxers, his legs trembling slightly and his stomach somersaulting. On his way to the shower, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and stopped.

He was completely hard. His cock was fully erect, resting against his abdomen. Harry looked away, feeling completely confused – even a little helpless – and colour burned his cheeks with shame. Why was he feeling this? He was straight. He’d come to terms with that long ago. It was who he decided to be – he liked  _girls_.

Louis definitely wasn’t a girl.

Harry wet his lips, wondering where to go from here. He wanted to sort himself out, but the idea of wanking in this bathroom with Louis and a bunch of strangers on the other side of that door...

And the idea of wanking off to thoughts of  _Louis_ , period...

Harry could barely contain his whimper. He bit his lip hard until he could taste blood, hoping that would clear his mind and cool him down. It didn’t, and Harry was left feeling more and more frustrated as time ticked on. Eventually, he gave up hope that his hard on would go away and he turned from the mirror and stepped into the shower.

The steam from the water had already fogged up the screen door but Harry didn’t mind; the condensation hid his body from the rest of the bathroom – despite the door being bolted already, the thought gave him an extra layer of security. Heat swirled in the hazy mist of the shower and Harry would have welcomed it on this cold, crisp morning if he wasn’t already feverish from the sex-ridden thoughts running through his mind. The heat seemed to just cling to him now, swarming him, restricting his freedom.

Which wasn’t helpful since it left him no room in his mind to try and cool himself down. His cock was still hard and Harry could feel it was positively  _throbbing_  by now. He rested the back of his head on the wall, letting the water soak his hair and run down the back of his neck. He could feel the droplets following the path of his back, resting in the dimples at the bottom of his spine – he tried to use it as a distraction from his arousal but, well, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

“Harry?” Louis’ voice sounded through the walls. “Hurry up, love.”

“Yeah,” Harry called, and his voice came out much deeper than he intended it, raspy with need and desire. He was  _sure_  Louis would guess what he was doing. “Uh, one minute.”

“Okay, well, the cameramen are gone now – they’re gonna meet us at the designer’s place.”

Harry didn’t care. He couldn’t think past  _I need to come, I need release, please._ “Erm...great.”

“Are you alright in there?” Louis asked, concern colouring his tone.

Harry’s frustration was mounting and he didn’t have the patience to wait anymore. He wrapped his fingers around his length, biting his lip to contain the moan that crawled up his throat.  _Shit_ , he thought, as he tugged on himself, building the friction on his cock. “Lou,” he gasped – not loud enough to be heard, but not exactly quiet either. “Oh my  _God_...”

With one hand splayed on his own chest and the other tossing himself off relentlessly, Harry couldn’t push back the locks of damp hair that had fallen in his eyes but he didn’t mind. His fringe blocked his view from the world; it made him feel more secure – like no one could find him here, shamelessly wanking to thoughts of another man’s hands on him. He could hear his thoughts on repeat in his head, like a scratched record:  _Louis, Louis, Louis, oh shit..._

He smoothed his thumb over his slit, feeling the sticky bead of pre-come spill over the head of his cock. He groaned – unable to stifle the sound – and it’d been so long since he’d masturbated, so long since he’d pleasured himself this way. He hadn’t felt any need to – there’d been no one who’d lingered on his mind the way Louis had, no one who’d ignited his body the way Louis did. Harry had kept it all cooped up and now he felt like he was opening a dam because  _holy shit_  he wanted to come so much that it almost hurt to think about it. Blood was throbbing to his hard cock, chasing his thoughts until he wasn’t whispering as much as he was just outright whining – loud, clear moans falling from his lips, echoing across the bathroom walls. It felt so good and sore at the same time. He was caught up in this heady mix of pleasure and pain, of heat and burning. He was so far gone in his haze of bliss that he didn’t even care if Louis heard – he just had to get it out of his system. _I need release, I need to come...please, please, please..._

He could only imagine what it felt like to have Louis stood with him, hands moving over Harry like magic. He could imagine that Louis would dip his head, lips parted slightly, and plant kisses over his chest – down, down, down, until his tongue flicked across Harry’s cock. Harry bit his lip, heat flushing his body. He wanted it, but he didn’t, and he felt like he was breaching some unwritten rule by doing this – some unwritten rule of heterosexuality. Where was the normalcy in a straight guy getting off to the thought of his gay roommate?

For the moment, though, Harry didn’t care. He wanted it so badly. He wanted Louis to touch him, to let his tongue taste him. Oh –  _fuck_ , he wanted it-

He felt warmth coil in his stomach, tightening the muscles of his abs until it physically hurt to hold it in and then Harry was crying out, “Oh,  _shit_ , Lou! That feels so good,” and he was spurting over his hand, thick shoots of come mixing with the shower water, sticky, clinging to his fingers, and tears were falling down his face because he’d never come that hard before and he was so fucking bewildered because he’d actually  _come_  over thoughts of another man while he was probably supposed to be thinking about women. Harry didn’t care how old he was – at that moment, he’d never felt so small and confused, never felt so helpless in his own body.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

When Louis didn’t get a response from Harry in the shower, Louis had shrugged and moved to his bed, opening the lid of his laptop to read the comments from yesterday’s upload. He’d kept the video fairly modest, allowing Harry to be viewed in a clumsy, innocent light as opposed to the teasing, attractive light Louis had seen in him. There was still a lot of shirtless Harry in the video, and a lot of the comments were about that – the tattoos, the sheer prettiness of his body – but then there was some from the viewers that caught Louis’ attention enough that he felt a thrill of excitement, need and a small shot of sadness.

_Oh my God, look at the way Harry looks at Louis – it’s like he’s his whole world..._

_They’re so cute and Louis is all protective of him because Harry’s clumsy and awkward aww_

_Relationship goals: Larry Stylinson_

_Clumsy Harry is me. Maybe Louis will love me like he loves Harry._

_Harry is so cute and adorable and how the hell is Louis going to cope being so close to such a fucking attractive_ straight _guy._

 _Tell me about it,_ Louis thought grimly, hovering his mouse over the comment to hit ‘reply’. He liked being truthful and upfront with his viewers; Louis almost wanted them to know how much Louis loved being around Harry, not because they were fans and they loved to know everything, but because Louis felt this odd sort of...claim over Harry. Like, Harry was his own person, but Louis felt a rising surge of envy whenever he thought about him being friends with anyone else. He was  _Louis’_  friend, his collab partner, and he kind of wanted the world to know that. Despite this, he refrained from responding to the comment – in his head, the thoughts sounded okay and acceptable, but he knew that if he published them on the internet, they could be misconstrued – ruin his image, even – and his viewers would think he was possessive and jealous and predatory. Louis wasn’t like that – the thought of restraining Harry at all was heartbreaking. He was someone who deserved the world, who deserved freedom with no one tying him down-

Louis’ thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of Harry  _moaning_.

Quietly, Louis half-closed the lid of his laptop, listening curiously. The shower was still running – there was a faint drum of water hitting the shower floor – but underlying that were the frequent grunts and whimpers that could only come from Harry. Louis wasn’t sure he was hearing it at first, but when the noises grew louder, it was almost impossible to ignore.

What was Harry doing in there? Was he – was he  _wanking_?

Louis turned the television down to mute, feeling awfully guilty for doing so; maybe he should just leave Harry to it. Louis wouldn’t like to be eavesdropped on whilst he was sorting himself out...

But Louis was so curious and  _fucking hell_  Harry’s moans were getting Louis hard. He shifted his laptop to alleviate some of the pressure, letting the tent in his jeans grow. He nibbled at his bottom lip to distract himself from the pleasure pooling in his abdomen but it didn’t really help.

“Oh, Lou,” Harry groaned and – was he wanking over  _Louis?_ What happened to  _I’m-straighter-than-straight_ Harry he’d known last night? Louis sat there for a moment in complete shock before the idea of Harry getting off over  _him_  hit him like a truck and it was so  _hot_ ; Louis wriggled uncomfortably as his arousal grew. He didn’t even try to calm himself down – what was the point when there was a twenty-two-year-old fucking hot guy moaning Louis’ name, naked in a shower, with just one wall separating them?

He could almost  _see_  Harry’s lips parted, slick with saliva, as he gasped out Louis’ name, hand tugging at his cock – and Louis could barely handle it; he wanted so badly to go in there and offer himself to Harry, to claim his mouth as his own. He wanted to touch him, to have him, to be with him under that running water. He wanted to grab Harry’s cock and pleasure him the way he deserved to be pleasured – because there was something sad about Harry feeling as though he had to sort himself out alone. It was clear to Louis – by the way his name sounded shaky as it fell from Harry’s mouth – that the younger boy wasn’t used to feeling like this, to feeling – Louis barely dared to think it –  _attracted_  to Louis, another man. Louis longed to know what was going on in his mind, longed to reassure him that it was okay to think about guys this way, that it was okay to be curious, even if he already knew his sexuality.

But Harry was...he was easily frightened away. Harry, who was shy and introverted and unsure of his own place in the world, would likely balk at the idea of any interaction of  _that sort_  existing between them, especially when he claimed so readily of his heterosexuality.

“That feels so good, Louis,  _please...”_ Harry’s moan sounded through the thin walls and Louis closed his eyes, relishing the words, palming himself through his jeans. It wasn’t enough – it wasn’t  _nearly_  enough – he wanted Harry inside him, fucking him, driving his cock into Louis’ ass, feeling his rim stretch around it, until Louis was  _wrecked_. He wanted that – he wanted Harry.

Louis could tell when Harry came; his shouts reached peak in volume before they died down again, and all Louis could hear were soft whimpers of need and contentment. Harry was probably washing the come from his hands now and Louis’ chest tightened and he pressed his lips together to contain his own gasp of pleasure at the thought. He pulled his laptop over his bulge when he heard the water shut off, and he plugged his earphones in, pretending as though he’d been listening to loud music for the entire time. He knew he looked normal, but he felt  _obviously flustered_  – he probably looked like a starving man; he wanted Harry so badly he was almost thirsty for it.

Harry emerged with a towel wrapped around his hips and – bloody hell – he looked  _fucked_. His cheeks were flushed, his hair spiralling in chaotic, soaked curls to his shoulders, his pupils were dilated, the whites pink with shower water – and his lips were parted, slicked with saliva. Water droplets travelled over his chest, following the lines of his abs to rest at the angles of his hips. Louis pushed the laptop off his lap and stood, hoping Harry didn’t pay attention to his raging erection, and walked over to him.

“You okay?” Louis asked, his voice a little higher than he expected. Harry stopped just outside of Louis’ personal space, eyeing him warily. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Harry said cautiously. “’M good.”

 _I’m sure you are,_ Louis thought smugly, but there was also a hint of jealousy in the thought.  _He_  wanted to be the one to make Harry look like this, to make him seem so scattered, as though someone had taken each of his rational thoughts and thrown them to the wind. “You took a long time,” Louis noted, wondering why he was still speaking. Did he want to scare the boy off?

Harry responded – making some vague excuse – but Louis’ gaze latched onto the towel, noticing something. Resting between the towel and Harry’s skin was a small droplet of come – innocently cloudy but undeniably identifiable. Louis was completely transfixed by it - Harry clearly hadn’t noticed that he didn’t wash it all off. Louis’ lips parted and before he could register his movements, he reached out and touched it, swiping the liquid off Harry’s abdomen. Harry almost jumped from the contact, keening softly; he was clearly oversensitive, still coming down from his high.

“What is that –  _oh_.” Harry flushed, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Did you hear...um...anything?”

Louis placed his finger in his mouth, sucking the come from his skin with such effort that his cheeks hollowed. Harry tasted salty but kind of sweet at the same time. Perhaps it was the bananas Harry ate; Louis had seen him eat at least three since he’d known him. Harry’s gaze flickered up to him and he let out a sharp breath, eyes darkening and cheeks flushing further.

“Lou?” His voice was considerably weaker this time, rough with – what? Louis didn’t want to assume but – well, Harry looked like he  _wanted_  Louis; he was looking at him like he’d just fucked Harry himself. It was a thought that made Louis almost drunk with need, but he ignored it, pulling his finger from his lips with an audible pop. Harry shifted uncomfortably, but Louis didn’t miss the way his hand brushed casually against his towel. He was trying to make it look like he was adjusting its fit on his hips, but the movement was too close to his groin to be completely innocent. Louis bit his lip to conceal his tiny whimper of longing.

“Hear what?” Louis asked harmlessly, flicking his gaze back up to Harry’s face, turning on his most charming smile – all teeth and crinkled eyes. Harry blinked, pressing his lips together resolutely. “I had my music in; I couldn’t hear a thing.”

Louis stepped past him, heading into the bathroom to shave. Harry stayed where he was, transfixed. Neither of them were talking about the elephant in the room – the fact that Louis knew Harry had just wanked in the shower, and the fact that Louis had effectively licked the remaining come from Harry – but it was there, unmentioned between them, charging the atmosphere like electric.

 

-*-

 

Harry really didn’t know what to say. The two of them sat in the escalade in silence, both completely ignoring each other. It wasn’t uncomfortable as such, but – well, it was. Harry was completely mortified – he knew that Louis had tasted him, that  _Louis_   _knew_  what he was doing in the shower that morning. Had Louis been telling the truth? Had he really not heard Harry? Because if he hadn’t – if he hadn’t heard Harry  _begging_  for Louis to touch him – then there was a chance that they could return to normalcy; their blossoming friendship was something Harry already treasured and he really didn’t want to be the one who ruined it. 

They’d dressed quietly that morning, not a word shared between them until Louis had wandered over to Harry and placed a hand at the top of his spine, fingers just touching the base of his neck. “Are you seriously going to wear that shirt to a fashion designer’s, Curly?”

Harry had frozen only for a moment before tipping his head back slightly, letting Louis twist his fingers softly in the baby hairs at the back of his neck. Harry had glanced at Louis and pouted. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”

He’d chosen a large white t-shirt with pointing hands printed all over it. He’d spotted it in a shop a while ago and it had caught his eye – it was something different and there was something...interesting about it.

Louis only swallowed when he told him this, though, and said, “It’s raining outside – it’ll become see-through and your tattoos will be on show, not to mention your abs...” he’d trailed off and Harry had caught something dark flash across Louis’ stormy gaze. It was that heated look, that unfiltered look of desire that had made Harry’s decision. He’d pulled out a dark jacket and put it on, but he left it unbuttoned, leaving his shirt on show; let Louis think what he wanted of that.

Just as they’d headed out the door, Louis had tossed him a beanie, smirking daringly. “Might as well go all out,” he’d said, and Harry had grinned despite himself, tugging the hat over his unruly curls.

“Harry,” Louis warned him now, startling Harry out of his thoughts. “There’s paparazzi outside the boutique. Not many – but...some...”

Harry looked out the window, humming uncomfortably in response. There was a small crowd of men hovering outside the shop – fifteen media seekers, perhaps. Harry let his terror abate for just a moment whilst the photographer within him assessed their kit – their cameras were top of the notch, some weren’t even on sell yet; they were clearly sent from major companies. Harry turned to Louis.

“I don’t understand why they’re here,” Harry said nervously. “I...what if I mess up? I’m not worth all the attention – I don’t want this-”

“Harry,” Louis placed a hand on Harry’s thigh; Harry tried not to jerk in surprise – he couldn’t get past how good it felt to have Louis squeeze his leg reassuringly. Was it wrong for a straight guy to feel that? “You’re getting worked up into a panic. They’re here because they’ve been paid by Aspire to cover Arts’ Week. Um, not to sound cocky as shit or anything, but I’m the most successful YouTuber they’ve got on the programme so...we might get a little more attention than the other pairs.”

“Great,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. Why did he have to be paired with the beautiful, lively famous one? Why couldn’t he have the reserved, gawky girl instead? What was her name...Florence? He wouldn’t have wanked over  _her_  in the shower this morning...

 _Whoa_. Was he saying that he’d rather wank over Louis than any other girl? Harry took a shaky breath, hating the thread of confusion that wrapped itself around his thoughts. He didn’t even recognise his own mind at the moment.

“I said I’d keep you safe, right?” Louis murmured, thumb ghosting over Harry’s knee through his ripped jeans. An innocent gesture, but Harry felt like fire. “Trust me?”

Harry looked at him. He’d styled his hair differently today; his fringe was ruffled and wild. His eyes shone with sincerity and mild affection – that same heady mix of stormy blues and greys. He was clean shaven and there was a small nick of a cut in the crease between his jaw and earlobe where the blade had caught his skin – Harry had heard him curse profusely this morning when he’d done it. Harry wasn’t sure why, but the cut was oddly endearing to Harry; it made that warm glow in his chest expand until it was that bursting flame of appreciation and his eyes were watering again because Louis was so  _beautiful_  and Harry just wanted to cry. It took every ounce of willpower not to lift his Polaroid and snap a picture.

“I trust you, Lou,” Harry whispered, his words caught in a hitch. “You’ll keep me safe.”

When the escalade pulled up outside of the boutique, the driver opened the door and Louis stepped out first, waiting for Harry to join him before he made his way to the front door. The photographers surrounded them, lenses flashing and shutters clicking, and Harry thought he had never known something so  _familiar_  feel so alien. He was so used to cameras – they were like friends to him – but right now, he’d never felt so isolated.

Louis gripped his hand, fingers intertwining in his. Harry glanced down at their joined hands, wondering if it was odd that he felt no negative feelings towards it – if anything, he was grateful that Louis had hold of him; Harry was so focused on keeping his head down and not tripping over his own feet that he wasn’t even sure where he was going. He’d probably be lost if it wasn’t for Louis’ guidance.

“Louis Tomlinson – can you tell us what you think of Harry’s artwork?”

“Styles, what’s your opinion on Hayden Kays’ homosexual pieces?”

“Tomlinson, how’s it feel to be so famous in the LGBTQ community?” A female asked, shoving a camera in Louis’ face. He brushed it away serenely, and Harry longed for his composure –  _he_  was totally freaking out. “You’ve helped so many teenagers come out of the closet; do you think you  _made_  them gay?”

Harry gaped with shock – Louis wouldn’t  _make_  a teenager be gay. It’s  _their_  choice, not his. Too stunned by the comments, Harry lost his competence and his professional camera bag slipped from his shoulder. He stopped to hoist it back up, panicking for a moment that he might lose Louis in the small crowd. The photographers shouldn’t have bothered Harry – it wasn’t like he was being completely mobbed with no way out – but Harry didn’t like feeling trapped and confined; the wall of people was making Harry’s breathing laboured and sweat break out over his skin.

“Lou,” Harry muttered helplessly, wincing as the flash of a camera hit his sight at the wrong angle, blinding him. “I don’t like this...”

Louis stopped, placing a hand at the small of his back to guide him forward. It was only a brief touch, but his hand had ghosted beneath Harry’s jacket, touching his bare skin, and it felt like flames licking across his spine. Harry trembled and looked up, eyes widening when his gaze met a ginger photographer’s predatory smirk. Harry knew then, that his reaction to Louis’ touch hadn’t gone unnoticed and he quickly calculated what the photographer might have seen in their interaction, a feeling of dread crawling up his throat.

“Louis, what’s it feel like to bottom for once?” Someone called, “Bet this dude fucks hard and rough, right? He’s not a traditional, pansy fag, is he?”

Louis froze, shoulders tensing, and Harry bit his lip, surprised by the wave of anger that seemed to roll from Louis’ body. Harry pushed lightly at Louis’ arm, muttering “It doesn’t matter; leave it,” though he kind of felt a little sick himself. How could the paparazzo be so crude?

When they finally reached the shop, Louis yanked the door open and stood aside for Harry to enter. Harry walked inside, turning to ensure Louis was safely in the building, only to catch him flipping off the paparazzo that had called the rude remark to them. Harry yanked on his hand, pulling him away from their prying eyes, and the door closed behind them, sealing off their shouting and flashing shutters.

“What the hell was that?” Harry gasped, pressing a hand to his heart. It thudded like crazy in his chest. “That man...”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Louis shook his head, looking defeated. He strode over to Harry, fingers brushing his arms and chest and face. Harry was oddly reminded of his sister’s affectionate touches – as though Louis was desperately checking he was still there, in one piece. “Are you okay? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

Harry shook his head, not knowing how to react to Louis’ attention.

Louis pulled a disgusted face.  “I was hoping they wouldn’t do it...”

“Do what?”

“You’re paired with me, Haz,” Louis shrugged. “For the whole week. You’re going to get it all the time now – remarks about our...relationship. They’ll think we’re dating, no matter what we say.”

Harry bit his lip, cheeks flushing. He let himself think about that for a moment, finding himself more confused that he didn’t care what they said – surely there should be some negative emotion procured from that idea? Harry’s shoulders slumped; he only ever seemed to have enough emotional capacity to feel confused, recently. “I don’t care about that; I’m more pissed that the guy used that  _word_.”

Louis scowled, fists clenching. “Fucking homophobic twat.” Louis’ hand clenched around Harry’s sleeve, his blue eyes hardening to ice. “It’s 2014  - when are they going to learn that slurs like that aren’t accepted? It’s why I do this work, Haz. To try and raise awareness about that kind of bullshit.”

Harry felt revulsion climb in his throat, bile burning his oesophagus. He touched Louis’ hand, loosening his fingers on his arm. Louis sat on the couch in the entrance lobby, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Lou, you don’t think they’ll write bad things about you, do you?”

“I’m positive they’ll write bad things, Harry,” Louis said sadly. “Especially since I didn’t react too kindly to their comments.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “Then I’m...err...I’m going down with you.”

Louis looked up, frowning with confusion. “That’s cute and everything but what makes you say that?”

Harry shook his head, frustrated that he couldn’t order his thoughts enough to explain. He felt trapped – by the photographers outside and his own betraying emotions. “I’m not gay, Louis-”

“Apparently, we’ve established this,” He said dryly and Harry felt a surge of embarrassment for earlier, when Louis may or may not have heard Harry wank over him. He chose to ignore the memory, carrying on with his sentence.

“So, like, I’m going to deny the articles saying you and me are...” He trailed off, groaning in frustration because nothing he was saying was making any sense. Louis waited silently, letting him organise his thoughts.

“Wait,” Harry said, not as though Louis had been doing just that. He pulled out a jotter from his camera bag. “I can’t explain it to you – I’m an artist; it’s easier if I  _show_  you.”

A woman came over then. “You must be Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles!” Her voice was brittle and highly annoying to Harry – who just ignored her. “Welcome to-”

“Could we have a minute alone, please?” Louis interrupted, waving her away. “We’ll come right through when we’re finished.”

The woman seemed disappointed but she smiled anyway. “Of course.” She flashed her bitter smile, startlingly white teeth framed with deep red lipstick. “We’ll be ready when you are."

Harry knelt on the floor before Louis, resting his jotter on the older boy’s knee. Louis didn’t complain though – he only watched as Harry sketched out the picture ingrained behind his eyelids. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “That photographer-”

“The homophobic one.”

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed. “He held his camera different from the rest. I noticed it because – well, it seemed odd. There was no way he was going to get a clear shot of our faces with the camera tilted like this.” He demonstrated with his own camera – sheathed in his bag. “It wouldn’t work; the angle’s all wrong.”

“Okay...” Louis seemed not to question him; perhaps he was confident in Harry’s abilities as a photographer himself.

“When I panicked, you touched me – here – right?” He pointed to the picture. He’d drawn him and Louis but at a profile, with Harry taking up the main feature of the picture. His forefinger ghosted over the sketch, pointing to where Louis had touched Harry’s back. “You touched my back – under my jacket-”

“My hand slipped. Sorry.” Louis said quickly.

Harry looked up, thrown off track for a moment. “Your...hand slipped?” He asked, the words coming out a little more breathless than he liked. He couldn’t explain his disappointment at Louis’ admission. “You didn’t mean to do it? It was an accident?”

Louis didn’t seem to notice the wall of emotional turmoil Harry had hit. “Of course it was.”

Harry took in a shuddering breath, a frown forming between his eyes. “Okay,” he said, and his voice sounded stronger to his own ears. “Okay, yeah. Fine.”

He couldn’t explain the utter regret and disappointment churning in his stomach. It wasn’t like he wished Louis had done it on purpose, right? He shook the thought off, returning to his original conversation.

“You touched me and I was...um...I was surprised – I reacted...like this.” He pointed to his face in the sketch, proud that he’d managed to capture the picture so well considering he hadn’t even looked at it from this point of view. “I remember him taking the shot – this angle, at this frame, with the paparazzi behind us. It was weird-”

Louis seemed to agree. “Why would he want a shot of us with a bunch of paparazzi in the background?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “He was capturing our interaction –  _my_  reaction. You touched me and I...did that – and he took the shot.” He gestured to the entire sketch. “That angle, lens, focal point – I saw it all.  _This_  would be the picture he’d get from it.”

Louis seemed to truly concentrate on the sketch then. It was innocent – almost. If it wasn’t for the colouring in Harry’s cheeks, or the widening of his eyes, if it wasn’t for Louis’ hand ghosting across his back beneath his jacket, or Harry clutching onto Louis’ arm, it would be completely innocent. As it was, it looked as though they were very accustomed to touching each other, and the whole interaction made it look as if they were indeed in a relationship.

“Harry,” Louis said warily. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve lived with cameras and photography my entire life, Lou.” Harry mumbled. “I could picture a scene from any angle, any lighting, any situation by just looking at it once.  _I can do it,_  Louis, because, like, I’ve been trained to. That pap was good – he’d received good training; if I was in his position, I may have  _just_  missed that shot, missed the opportunity to take it, I mean. But he didn’t. There’s no doubt in my mind that  _that_  picture will be in magazines tomorrow.”

Louis was quiet for a minute. “Sometimes I forget how talented artists are.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“Not at all,” Louis said quickly. “I think it’s pretty fucking amazing that you managed to suss out what picture that guy was taking even in that crowd of chaos.”

“I love cameras. They make me focused. I concentrate on them – everything else is drowned out.” Harry said, though he couldn’t deny the flipping of his stomach at Louis’ compliment. “But...I’m not gay – these articles are going to say we are...I don’t have a problem with the rumours, Lou – really, I don’t. But I do have a problem with the  _evidence._ Because it’s not an accurate representation of the overall picture. It’s false – fabricated, even. If anyone asks me...I’m going to deny it. I swear I will, Lou. I’m sorry...if that upsets you or...”

Harry trailed off, seeing the flash of hurt in Louis’ eyes. It was gone before Harry could do anything about it, though, and he felt pretty helpless, knelt in front of Louis, frustrated with his own feelings and with the wall of paparazzi outside. Louis smiled – but there was no trace of his usual spark of happiness – and looked up at him. Harry could see his stormy eyes were sad – he could see past the wall of nonchalance that Louis tried to hide behind.

“I’m sorry, Lou.”

Louis shrugged, overly cheerful. “Don’t be,” he said, the words riddled with false happiness. “Why would I be offended? We’re  _not_  in a relationship, Harry. Remember? You’re  _straight."_  

Louis stood, placed the jotter on the seat in his stead, offered Harry a controversial wink, and then strode away. It took Harry a long time to organise his thoughts enough to get up and follow.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Harry loved cameras – it was the only thing he’d ever fallen truly in love with and he’d made it his whole life. Cameras, photography, art – it was all like a drug to him; it helped manage the sometimes overwhelming urge to find beauty, enough so that he could often distract the itch beneath his skin by going outside, taking a few photos, sketching some scenes. It was like medicine, calming and natural, almost.

Be that as it may, Harry was quickly becoming irritated with Louis’ obsessive compulsion to shove a camera in  _Harry’s_  face every two seconds. He was already trying so desperately to cope with the small film crew trailing their path along the sand behind them – he didn’t need Louis shoving a vlogging camera in his face on top of that.

“Lou,” Harry moaned, pushing the older boy away as Louis turned the lens on him again. “Leave me alone!”

Louis’ lips pressed together with annoyance. “Harry, I have to do this – this is my job!”

They were walking along the beach, heading towards a tiny art market Aspire had lined up for them to visit that afternoon. Harry had to admit he was pretty excited; the market was quaint and not the kind of thing that spouted over-produced copies. It was the real deal, and Harry was feverishly hoping he’d find some original pieces, find something beautiful, perhaps.

“You can vlog yourself,” Harry mumbled, the edge of anger draining from his voice when he caught the hurt spark in Louis’ eyes. “I don’t need to be in it all the time."

“Yes,” Louis reminded him pointedly. “You do. We’re  _collab_  partners – that means, by definition, that we have to collaborate. Come on, Haz...it’s not much to ask.”

“I’m not good in front of the camera,” Harry complained, but Louis seemed to notice that all the fight had completely left him; he grinned when Harry’s shoulders fell in defeat, and turned the camera on the two of them, running some endless commentary about what they were doing right now. As though it wasn’t obvious. They were walking. Along a beach. Wasn’t hard to figure that out.

When Louis turned to him, his eyes pleading for him to cooperate, Harry tried to ditch the sour mood and bitter thoughts. “Are you looking forward to this?” Louis asked, gesturing to the market up ahead.

Harry wanted to lie, to say no – just to get the camera out of his face. But he got the impression that he’d be talking to the lens just as much as he’d be talking to Louis this week, and that the two would be interchangeable. He couldn’t lie to Louis, no matter how irritating he was being, so he sighed and opened up a little, feeling hesitant about doing so. “Yes,” he admitted.

Louis beamed, pleased that he was finally working with him. “What are you looking forward to?”

Harry chose to ignore the camera – pretended as though it wasn’t there. It worked, albeit only a little, and he gave a tentative grin when Louis raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. Honestly, it felt like he was just talking to Louis now, and it was considerably easier for him to communicate without clamming up.

So he let the fanatic in him out, unable to help his small smile. “I’m looking forward to the original pieces – so often you go out and you find...copies and imitations – sometimes the most  _unoriginal_  works. A lot of the time, they’re just, like, rip offs, some overrated. I hate that society can’t separate glorified artwork from true beauty-”

“Very hipster, Haz.” Louis interrupted, grinning fondly. “Let the indie within you roam free, my friend.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I just have a better judgment than most.”

“Are we boasting, Styles?”

Harry flushed and turned away, feeling as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. He shuffled his foot, awkwardly, kicking up powdered clouds of soggy sand – the stuff had long since ruined his ankle boots. “No,” Harry said quietly. “I didn’t mean that – some people know what to look for. I’m not...any more special than anyone else.”  _I’m not special at all,_ he thought. But he didn’t say that – even ignoring the camera didn’t mean that Harry didn’t know it was  _there_.

“I’m actually looking forward to meeting the people who create the work,” Louis said, filling the heavy silence that followed. “I want to see if they’re all as annoyingly pretentious as you.”

“Heyyyy!” Harry protested, a twinge of hurt twisting his stomach. His lips parted as he sucked in a wounded breath. “That’s not very nice. ‘M not pretentious.”

“I’m fucking with you, mate.” Louis threw his free arm over Harry’s shoulder, holding him close. There was laughter in his stormy eyes – lighting his face in a way that Harry wished he could capture. The idea of whipping his Polaroid out was tempting, but he knew there’d be many moments he’d feel that urge this week, especially if he was spending every single minute with this beautiful person. Harry couldn’t deny the feeling of warmth that spread through him at Louis’ touch, chasing the cold stab of hurt away until Harry was feeling nothing but fondness for this boy – this boy that had quickly become his closest friend. “You’re so sensitive,” Louis muttered, pouting unconsciously. “Can’t even joke with you.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on Louis’ mouth; he found himself fascinated by the way his bottom lip was slightly fuller than his top lip, though both of them were thin. His top lip was darker, too, and Harry recalled him burning his mouth on the tea they’d ordered from room service that morning. Harry shook his head at the memory, eyes dropping to the floor.

“What are you laughing about?” Louis asked suspiciously.

Harry pressed his lips together to conceal the smile that had spread across his face. “Not laughing,” he managed, stifling his quiet chuckle. When Louis just stared at him, he gave up. “I was remembering you burning your lip this morning. I figured you’re not that much different from me.” Harry frowned – he really wasn’t very good at explaining.

Louis seemed to confirm his worry. “You’re shit at voicing your thoughts,” he observed thoughtfully. “You’d be fucking awful as a YouTuber – perhaps you should stick to photography.” But then he stopped, the joke slipping with the smile that dropped from his face. “Not different to you, how?”

“I’m inept...and that bad habit of yours – burning your lip on your tea – well, it’s the only way you falter. It’s the only inelegant thing about you.” Harry spoke with a tone of finality, temporarily ending the conversation. Louis made a sound of discontentment – as though he disagreed – but he didn’t push it.

Harry looked across the horizon, admiring the difference in blues between the sky and the sea. Most people wouldn’t agree that this beach was very pretty, but Harry thought it was. There was something...very average about the litter half-buried beneath the sand, the mud-coloured slush that separated the dry sand from the sea, the cawing of sea gulls as they perched on the Groynes. It's normalcy struck Harry as very attractive. The sea wall hid the quaint little village from view and Harry knew it could be considered an eyesore to most people – if he got the right angle, the right lighting; perhaps at four o’clock in the afternoon, or maybe seven in the morning – he could manipulate the picture so that the wall framed this beach in a way that didn’t look too ugly.

Satisfied by the thought, he inhaled deeply, embracing the salty, fishy scent of the coast – it had been so long since he’d been on a beach. The last time he’d stepped foot on sand had been with his sister when they were both young kids. Harry had dropped his ice cream and Gemma had expected him to throw a tantrum so when he did, she was ready with her napkin to wipe his tears. She’d feverishly begged their mum to buy him another one, too distraught with Harry’s sadness to think otherwise. It had taken Harry the time it took for her to dry his tears to make her understand that he wasn’t actually crying over the loss of the ice cream, but how utterly tragic it looked splattered on the sand. He didn’t want another one – it would be like betraying the first.

Louis broke the silence, but it was less about him getting information for his next video, and more about wanting to know more about Harry. His hand dropped from Harry’s shoulder, and he missed the comfortable weight of it instantly. “What are you thinking about?”

Harry smiled nostalgically. “My sister,” he murmured softly.

“Are you close?”

“She is the most beautiful person on this planet,” Harry told him solemnly. “Apart from my mother.”

Louis nodded, seeming to accept that beauty was the way Harry evaluated his relationships with people. Harry couldn’t help it – he strived to be close to it, to be involved with it in any way he could.

Harry snapped out of his thoughts when he realised Louis was waiting for him to elaborate.

“We used to come here – to the beach, all the time,” Harry explained. “We used to live by the coast, before we moved to Cheshire. When we moved – it was about the same time mum met Robin – we couldn’t go as much. I missed it; I still do. But...we grew up and, like, Gemma went to university and I took a gap year...”

“You took a gap year?” Louis interrupted, curious. “What did you do?”

“I went to Zambia for a while – volunteered out there with a charity.” Harry shook his head at the memory, overcome with harrowing sadness. “It was... like something you’ve never seen, Lou. Kids just, like, barely surviving – working to the bone for a scrap of food. It tormented me, all year.”

“Why did you stay?” Louis blinked, coming out of his reverie. “I didn’t mean that to sound like a dickish thing to say. I mean, of course you’d stay to help them out. But if it was really traumatic for you-”

“I liked helping them.” Harry’s voice hardened with self-assuredness, the soft, wistful edge gone. “It made me feel better as a person. Their faces lit up – they were more  _alive_  when they were offered kindness. If I had my way I’d stay there for the rest of my life.”

Louis hummed in approval and stepped towards him, hand brushing Harry’s arm. He could feel the zing of electric pass through them at the briefest of touches even through his jacket sleeve. He could feel the turn of longing in his stomach. He pulled out his travel cam, taking a few shots of the beach – mostly to distract himself from his uncomfortable thoughts.

The cawing of the sea gulls punctured what would have been silence between them, and Harry was all too aware of the sea crashing against the rocks up ahead, the rattle of a crisp packet as it barrelled down the coast, caught in the angles of two pebbles. He could faintly hear the sound of music from the market – old, European tunes. Harry’s gaze latched onto the sea wall, where a small girl in a beanie not dissimilar from his was struggling to balance, arms outstretched shakily. Her father stood on the other side of the wall, hand held steady in front of him, ready to catch the girl if she fell. Harry took a picture – if, later, he changed the shadowing on his editing software, he thought that could be a very dramatic picture.

“Why not the Polaroid?” Louis asked, noticing Harry’s approval of the girl.

“Not-”

“Not beautiful enough,” Louis understood instantly, eyes lighting with comprehension and that –  _that_  was enough for the Polaroid; Louis with bright eyes and a damp mouth – twisted into a wry grin – hair tousled by the coastal winds; he looked almost  _unravelled_ , but by the time Harry had even thought it, the light in his blue eyes was gone and the burning fire inside Harry’s chest dulled to the ever-glowing ember that only ever seemed to exist around Louis. Harry almost cursed himself; he had the travel camera at least, yet still, he’d  _missed_  the shot. “Come on,” Louis urged, oblivious to Harry’s inner frustrations.

They made their way up the beach, the film crew following silently behind them. They didn’t talk for a while, but Harry kind of wished Louis would put his arm around him again. It was comfortable – it made him feel like he could rely on Louis – like he had a friend. He didn’t care that the cameras behind were watching them; he was becoming more and more accustomed to them now, and he could almost forget they were even there.

Harry’s boot hit a raised rock and he stumbled, falling over his own feet. His hand clamped onto Louis’ arm but the momentum was too strong to be stopped by Harry’s blind grabbing, and he fell, dragging Louis down with them, until they both hit the sand hard, the breath whooshing from their bodies through impact. Harry let his head fall forward, his hands clenching around balls of sand, laughing softly, hunched on all fours. He thought a rock had cut through the material of his jeans; there was a smarting sensation in his knee that he tried desperately to ignore – it wasn’t too painful that Harry couldn’t see the hilarity in the situation, so he didn’t stop laughing.

“ _Fucking hell,_  Harry,” Louis breathed, collapsing against the sand, limbs sprawled out so that he resembled a five-year-old’s imitation of a starfish. His cheek almost matched the colour of the sand; his skin was a perfect tone – not too tanned, not too pale. “You’re going to kill me.”

Harry’s laughter only doubled when he saw how frightened Louis was; he was still in the aftershock of the fall. Harry was used to stumbling and staggering – his balance faltered at least once a day. Louis, however, was clearly very elegant and adept; he knew where his limbs were, what hazards lay before him. Louis was a graceful, delicate kind of guy and Harry was definitely not.

Because of this, Harry took each fall with a pinch of salt – mocking himself for his errors, dusting himself off and getting over it pretty quickly. Louis didn’t do any of this; he lay there, panting softly as he came down from his panic, and his eyes were wide with instinctive fear. He kind of resembled a puppy. Harry’s chest heated suddenly and his eyes watered and he pressed his lips together to hold back his noise of appreciation.

He pulled himself up into a sitting position, legs crossed, and he tugged his Polaroid out of his satchel, snapping a picture before Louis could even prepare himself to react.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, but too late – the shutter had already captured the image. “Fuck off,” he said, but there was no malice in his tone – only fondness. There was a hint of relief in his voice; he was grateful he hadn’t hurt himself, Harry thought.

“You’ve hurt your knee...” Louis noticed and he sat up, too, eyeing the injury with displeasure. Harry looked at it out of surprise – he was doing a really good job at ignoring the pain until now. “I’ll ask the film crew if they have a first aid kit.”

Harry smiled gratefully, tucking his Polaroid away with care. His travel camera was half-buried in the sand only a few feet away where he’d dropped it when he tripped, and Harry leant over to retrieve it, brushing the sand off with only a small measure of sympathy. He didn’t really lend much affection to this piece of cheap crap; it was only used out of convenience and he found that he didn’t really care if it broke.

Louis was still staring at him, crinkles formed beside his blue eyes where he was holding back a smile. He shook his head disbelievingly when Harry caught his gaze. “Why do you have to be so bloody clumsy, Hazza?”

Harry shrugged innocently, biting his lip. “I ask myself that every day.”

 

-*-

 

Louis couldn’t keep his eyes off Harry. 

He tried to deny it – he told himself he was just checking on his welfare; they’d taken a nasty tumble, after all, and Harry was still trying to conceal his limp. He didn’t complain of his injury – but then Harry wasn’t one to draw attention to that – but Louis worried all the same.

That’s what he told himself.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the captivating way Harry’s eyes would light with sheer pleasure when he saw a new stand with an interesting piece of artwork. It had nothing to do with the way his full lips would turn down at the corners slightly when he was judging other photography. It certainly had nothing to do with the way Harry’s hand would brush Louis’ as they walked beside each other – just a ghost of a touch, but it sent pangs of longing pulsing through Louis’ stomach.

It was the first time Louis had seen Harry in his comfort zone. There was something to be said about relaxed Harry – sure, he’d witnessed  _drunk_  Harry, who was almost the same – but truly relaxed, fully coherent Harry? Louis was partial to him. Harry had tied a bandana around his head, pulling his curls from his eyes, and his professional camera hung from his neck – unsheathed from its bag. He held his Polaroid in his hand, thumbs drifting over the capture button but never pressing, oh no. He came close a few times, Louis noticed, but then Harry would look at Louis with narrowed eyes, as though he was comparing, and then give a small shake of his head.

This Harry was also pretty dominant, too. He was confident and braver, something Louis had the chance to notice when Harry came across a fellow photographer capturing family portraits.

It was a walk-in, temporary studio – and it wasn’t very well separated from the beach – but Harry treated it like it was a castle, treading lightly and carefully, eyes bright with comprehension of the inner works of this place. Louis had no fucking idea what was going on, but he watched Harry take everything in anyway – from the funny umbrella thingies behind the photographer, to the thick vinyl material of the backdrop. Louis thought Harry was keeping his thoughts to himself – that is, until he dropped into a crouch beside the photographer, who was lying on his belly, and said, “Your white balance is totally off – you’ve got it on Tungsten light, haven’t you? 3200K? You need to customize it, take it down to 2600K, I reckon, because the boy is much darker-skinned than his family. If you don’t adjust it, you’ll be drowning out his sister. Oh, and by the way, you’re capturing that girl’s face all wrong.”

The photographer sat up, frowning irritably. He glanced down at Harry’s camera around his neck, eyes critical, and then back up to his face. “I’m sorry – who are you?”

“’M Harry,” he responded nonchalantly. He stood, walked away from the photographer – towards the family who were watching the exchange with confused glances. He took his boots off before he stepped on the vinyl back drop, and just that little acknowledgement – that the backdrop had to be kept clean – was enough to keep the photographer from fighting with him. “Hey, little girl,” Harry murmured, gaining the four-year-old’s attention. “Can we just change your position a bit?”

The girl gave a nervous squeak. Louis watched, smiling fondly, as Harry stripped his jacket off, placed it beneath his injured leg – Louis understood that he was protecting the vinyl from his bleeding wound; Harry was nothing if not thoughtful. He got down on his knees and pressed his hand to the girl’s arm gently, edging her away from her brother and towards her mother. “What’s your name?” He asked her, still using that timid, childish voice that Louis had only ever heard when he was drunk, telling off his camera when it injured his finger.

“Lily,” she answered primly – but there was still a lot of shyness in her eyes.

Harry seemed totally focused on the girl; he ignored the coughing and spluttering of the indignant photographer behind him, ignored the reprimanding words of their film crew; he just spoke to the girl, eyes soft with mild affection.

“Well, Lily,” Harry said quietly – Louis could barely hear him. “This man doesn’t know how to take pretty pictures. You want to be pretty for this picture, yes? Your hair is pretty – we want to show it off, don’t we?”

The girl nodded, pigtails bouncing enthusiastically. She seemed to be coming around to Harry talking to her now, her grin now wide. She had her front tooth missing – and Louis was completely amazed at the sight of what lay before him: Harry on his knees in front of an infant, coaxing her into a better position for the camera, subtly encouraging her, boosting her confidence – words that would probably resound in her head even after this photoshoot. The level of fondness Louis felt for Harry before was nothing compared to this. He hid his smile behind his sleeved hand, lest the photographer think Louis had pressed Harry into this, and he stayed quiet.

Harry looked up at the mother, eyes full of question. Louis didn’t know what Harry had asked, but the mother nodded and Harry took the woman’s wrist and guided her arm protectively around her daughter’s chest, fingers resting at the girl’s hips. Harry sat back on his ankles, surveying, before giving a curt nod – offering the girl an encouraging smile – and then he moved the boy back one step before humming in contentment.

Without a word, he strode off the vinyl, pulled his boots back on and then headed towards the photographer. His eyes were bright with something like love – Louis realised then just how comfortable Harry felt doing this, being around cameras and studio lights; Harry just loved  _this_  - Louis could see it in his eyes. The day he saw that innocent, child-like love fade from his green eyes would be the day Louis would resign from the internet; it just didn’t seem like it was ever going to happen.

Harry held out his hand to the man. “May I?” A small pause. “I’d use my own but...this is your business.”

The man looked up and Louis thought he must have seen something in Harry’s eyes – perhaps he saw the innocence, or the sheer enjoyment in his face, because all the tension and anger in his shoulders drained away and he handed his camera over, murmuring, “Can’t hate you, kid – I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. There’s a good chance you won’t even know how to use this camera; it’s complicated.”

Harry smiled gratefully anyway and took the camera. The photographer joined Louis without a word – and Louis was struck by the thought that their film crew must be having a field day capturing this moment, this moment where Harry was truly in his element, in charge, in complete control.

Louis almost wished Harry would exercise the same control over  _him_.

He pushed the thought away, shocked. Louis didn’t like people controlling him –  _he_  liked to control  _others_. He liked to rule people, to have a hold over them. So why did he suddenly want Harry to look at him like that – serene and dominating at the same time, a heady mix of teal and jade? Why did he want Harry to run his steady hands over his body, powerful and loving at the same time – handle him the way he handled the photographer’s camera now?

Louis mentally shook himself, thrown off by his wayward thoughts. He focused on Harry again. The younger boy was contemplating the camera, thumbs ghosting over the buttons as he quickly tried to work it out. His eyes were bright, and Louis could almost  _see_  the cogs turning in Harry’s brain. The photographer beside Louis watched Harry too, wordless, and there was something to be said for a twenty-two-year old who was able to capture the attention of a dozen people – including a four-year-old girl – without even really  _doing_  anything. What’s more, Harry didn’t even seem to realise that all eyes were on him; he was completely oblivious to the attention.

“The kid an expert?” The photographer nudged Louis, questioning. He kept his voice low; he didn’t want Harry to hear them.

Louis blinked, pride swelling in his stomach. “He knows what he’s talking about,” Louis confirmed. “Never met anyone like him.”

Harry held the camera up, squinting slightly, and took a testing picture. “Well,” the man said, swallowing slightly. “He certainly figured that one out quickly. It took me  _weeks_  to comprehend how that piece of kit worked.”

Louis was so freaking proud he could barely breathe. “He has an affinity for cameras and photography in general. He just  _knows_  how it all works.”

“Who’s he signed with?” The photographer asked. “Or is he self-employed?”

Louis shrugged. “Unsigned, unrepresented. We’re working with Aspire Generations at the moment to get him up there in this industry – but he’s still at uni, so-”

“He’s not even graduated?”

Louis shook his head, lips pressed together to hide his smirk. The photographer could barely comprehend Louis’ words; he just kept clearing his throat and muttering “unbelievable” under his breath, as though it would change the fact that Harry was clearly more talented than him.

Harry was completely unaware of this, of course, and perhaps that was what made him so goddamn special. His shoulders relaxed after a moment of taking pictures, and he grinned easily, handing the photographer back his camera as though it was a newborn child.

“Nice piece of equipment you have there,” Harry noted, a kind quality to his voice. He spoke about the camera as though it was a dog and Harry was complimenting its loyalty. “Thank you for letting me use it.”

“Did you get good pictures?”

Harry smiled softly, “I did. Feel free to use them – you don’t have credit me.” He shrugged self-depreciatingly. “Do you mind if I just adjust the left Westcott Flash?”

“It’s not Westcott,” the photographer said smugly, as though he was proud of catching Harry out. “It’s-”

“ _Lastolite_ ,” Harry growled in annoyance. “Damn it – I  _thought_  it was but it didn’t have the right quality to the material of it...”

The photographer grimaced as though Harry was insulting him. “Had them a long time – they’re by no means new.”

Harry didn’t seem to care. He just smiled, shook the photographer’s hand, and went off to examine one of the umbrella thingies – they were the Lastolites, Louis realised.  _That’s_  what they were talking about.

“He’s quite something,” the photographer remarked. “Never met someone so fresh on the scene know so much about it.”

Louis shrugged, trying to play off how goddamn fond and proud he was feeling for Harry at that moment. “I’m a YouTuber,” he clarified. “I have no idea about any of this; I’m just here to promote.”

“Promotional internet advertising?” The photographer asked, interested. “Do you have many subscribers?”

Louis blushed. Usually, he’d brag about his subscribers and his fan network, but with Harry listening in, Louis felt almost embarrassed. “Almost seven,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Thousand?”

“Million...” Louis cringed, praying that Harry wasn’t listening; he didn’t want his judgment.

The photographer seemed too dumbstruck to respond. “Who the hell  _are_  you kids?” He breathed, and Louis took that opportunity to thank him, apologise on behalf of Harry’s rude interruption, and leave.

They were just on their way out of the sectioned-off studio when Harry stopped. It took Louis a moment to realise that the four-year-old girl had caught up with them, and she was tugging on Harry’s jacket. “I like your t-shirt,” she told him.

Harry looked down at his own shirt - the one with pointed fingers - raised an eyebrow, and threw a victorious smirk in Louis’ direction. “My friend here doesn’t like it.”

Louis tried not to grin outrageously at the use of the word ‘friend.’ “I like it,” he muttered under his breath. “I just like it  _too_  much.”

It was true – earlier it had rained, and the two of them had been caught in it as they walked from the fashion designer’s to the escalade, this time out the back way to avoid the paparazzi. Louis had pulled his hood over his head, zipping his jacket up. Harry had done no such thing, and his white t-shirt had clung to his body beneath his black jacket, and Louis had seen every single tattoo on his chest, every line of his abs. It had driven him freaking  _crazy_. He just wanted to  _touch_  Harry, all the time – it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the urge.

It was almost as if Harry could read his mind. When the girl returned to her mother, Harry threw his arm over Louis’ shoulder, waiting until they were out of sight of the studio, before muttering, “The guy was nice, but he didn’t really know what he was doing. You should have seen the customisation he’d chosen for his camera. Everything was switched off! I haven’t taken a picture like that since I was ten.” He glanced at Louis with bright eyes – there was a feverish energy about him, like he  _caught_  passion from physical contact with the camera. “And  _that_  was with a disposable.”

Louis laughed. “Why didn’t you make him credit you?”

Harry shrugged, mouth pulling into a small pout. “Sometimes it’s nice to do things for people just to be nice...instead of, like, getting your name out there.”

Louis nodded, his chest swelling. Sometimes, Harry was too kind for this world.

They spent the rest of the afternoon browsing around the market, picking out pieces that they thought the other would like. Louis vlogged, ignoring the weird glances he got from older bystanders, who didn’t really understand why he had a camera turned on himself and was chatting animatedly to it. Louis didn’t care what they thought. Perhaps it was the old, European music, or the antique build of the market, or the scent of salt and sea – maybe it was the desperate cry of the sea gulls – but Louis had never felt more at peace. Sure, he wasn’t in his element; he knew nothing about art, or pottery, or fashion, or music, but he did know serenity. Sometimes he was so busy partying, or going on a piss-up with Niall, or loudly entertaining his viewers, that he didn’t really ever have time to stop and appreciate where he was, how lucky he was. He didn’t appreciate peace until it was literally staring at him in the face.

He had a feeling Harry’s mind never thought of anything else.

They were so different – Louis was wild and energetic and open, Harry was more reserved, knowledgeable and composed. They were so very different, but Louis almost felt there was a thread of something in him that was in accord with Harry, something they both shared and had in common. He wasn’t sure what it was, but they understood each other and they just, sort of,  _clicked_.

Harry had wandered aimlessly from him when Louis had found himself caught up with some landscape shots of major cities – New York, L.A, Miami – and Louis glanced around, lost in a mini-panic, before he spotted Harry’s dark, unruly hair duck beneath the canvas of a stall. He wasn’t trying to get away, but he was clearly so caught up in something that he’d briefly forgotten about Louis. He made his way over to the stall, intrigued.

Harry was purchasing something, his professional camera hitting his broad chest with a dull thump as he shifted his weight away from the woman behind the make-shift till. He held a large paper bag in his hand, and he sincerely thanked the woman, eyes wide and lips turned into a small smile. Louis admired him quickly before Harry turned and spotted him. “Hello,” he said in greeting. “Sorry I abandoned you – thought you were behind me but you weren’t.”

Louis brushed the apology away. “What did you buy?”

Harry’s cheeks coloured and he looked away. “Nothing – just some interesting pieces. I remembered what one of the paparazzi asked me this morning – about someone’s work. Hayden Kays, his name was, and – I don’t know – I was curious. I Googled him and, by some stroke of luck, some of his stuff was here. I bought it.”

“I bet that cost a bomb.”

Harry shrugged, pulling a face in admission. “I thought it was-”

“Beautiful?”

Harry shook his head. “Not beautiful...but resonant. There was something in the work that kind of stuck with me.”

Louis was so curious, he thought he was going to die. “Can I see it?”

Harry’s flush darkened and he shifted his bag to his other hand – away from Louis. “Definitely not.”

Maybe it was the embarrassed hue to Harry’s cheeks, or the stern clench of his jaw, but Louis dropped it. He’d ask again later, when they were holed up in their hotel room again – just the two of them.

Louis’ stomach twisted with anticipation. He’d never been so excited to sleep in a hotel room than he was right now.

 

  
 


	8. Chapter 8

Louis and Harry sat on the couch in their hotel room, controllers in hand, shouting nonsensical insults to each other as they waited for their escalade to pull up outside the hotel. They had to attend the fashion show tonight – it was one of their three red-carpet events – and they’d been granted two hours of camera-free time to get ready once they’d got in from the hour-long journey back from the market. They’d dressed into the designer’s clothes about half an hour ago, and spent the next ten minutes wandering around aimlessly – they’d avoided sitting for fear of creasing the clothes – but both had been so nervous that they couldn’t just keep pacing.

After the fifteenth minute of doing this very thing, however, Louis looked at Harry with such hefty significance that Harry stopped, eyebrows raised in question. Louis grinned hopefully, and held up a game controller, puffing his chest out dramatically. “Fifa – will  _you_  rise to the challenge?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What challenge?”

Louis had gaped at him, thoroughly offended, and demanded that they say to hell with fashion, ending in them both sat at opposite ends of the couch, controllers in hand, thumbs twiddling ferociously. At that moment, neither of them cared about putting creases in their clothes and neither of them cared about the looming fashion show – though Harry was actually beyond nervous. They just sat and played like two teenagers, embracing their gaming spirits. Louis was surprised to find that Harry was actually very competitive, considering how shy and passive he was in reality.

“Oi, you fucking bastard!” Louis yelled, shoving playfully into Harry’s side. “You can’t just hack me out to get the ball – that should have been a red card! Ref! Send him off!”

Harry only chuckled. “Tomlinson can’t handle that he’s not as good as he says he is.”

“Not true – I’m way  _better_  than I say I am,” Louis corrected, glaring at the screen. “I just tone down my own talents – don’t want to seem too cocky, you know? Gotta stay modest, and all.”

“You, Louis Tomlinson, are not someone I’d put ‘modest’ in the same sentence with.” Harry grinned, flashing his teeth, eyes still on the screen. Louis was struck by the way the dusk light was filtering in through the hotel blinds, casting across Harry’s face. It accentuated the angle of his cheekbones, and Louis thought perhaps it was his tangled hair that constantly deterred attention from the structure of his face, but it was obvious now, with Harry’s hair gelled and slicked up from his cheeks. He really was a pretty boy, and Louis couldn’t deny the ache in his stomach as he looked at him.

When Harry gave a shout of victory – meaning he must have finally gotten past Louis’ defence – Louis returned his attention to the screen, shaking the heavy feeling of longing from his shoulders. Sure enough, Harry had scored, though Louis was definitely still winning. He upped his game, trying desperately to provoke a reaction from Harry, who was biting his lip with concentration – and  _fuck_  that mouth...

“Harry,” Louis said evenly, keeping his eyes fixed on the game. Even in the reflection of the screen, he could see Harry’s mouth – bottom lip rolling lightly between his teeth provocatively, though he was unaware of it – and it just led Louis to thoughts he’d rather not think about whilst sat in these ridiculously tight jeans. “Stop biting your lip.”

Harry frowned, confused. “Why?”

Louis didn’t bother to respond. He just carried on playing and Harry kept glancing at him questioningly. Louis ignored him while he scored another three times, but then he sighed, almost giving up. “Babe-” the word slipped accidentally from his mouth but Harry didn’t seem to mind. Louis brushed over it, pretending he’d never said it. “It’s not fun if you’re  _trying_  to lose.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, eyes flashing with indignation. “’M  _not_  trying to lose!”

Louis grinned, feeling as though his heart was going to burst from his chest at any minute. “So you’re admitting you’re just shit.”

“Play harder,” Harry said, waving his controller at the screen. “I’ll show you.  _Harder_."

And the word choice there had Louis clamping his thighs together and gritting his teeth to hide his smirk because he could only imagine what it sounded like – Harry begging as he writhed beneath him... _harder_... _harder_...

Oh, shit.

Louis chewed the inside of his cheek to stop himself from flushing, bringing his controller down to rest in his lap, hiding his erection. He never usually got so worked up over something so trivial, but this was  _Harry_ , and apparently when it came to him, nothing ever followed the rules.

“I can beat you,” Harry promised, oblivious to Louis’ problematic situation – Harry wasn’t even talking to Louis really; the words were more like an encouragement for himself. “I can-”

“YES!” Louis grinned, throwing his arms up. Erection forgotten – though by no means gone – he had finally gotten past Harry’s best defender; he’d been trying for ages. “AND TOMLINSON SCORES ONCE AGAIN! AAHHH! BEST PLAYER OF THE CENTURY-”

Harry threw the controller on the couch, pouting. “ _Lou_ ,” he whined, before he cut off, his eyes lighting up with an idea and he picked the controller up again. “I’m not giving up. I’ll score again.”

Their attention returned to the screen and Harry was quiet for a change as they played. It was difficult this time – he was clearly putting in his best efforts – but Louis still felt he had an upper hand. Harry shuffled over, muttering “come on, come  _on_ ,” under his breath as he closed the small space between them, thumbs pressing frantically into his controller. He leaned against Louis, nuzzling slightly into his shoulder. It was an affectionate gesture, but it was clearly meant to distract Louis. It succeeded, and Harry’s player intercepted the ball. Louis shoved half-heartedly at Harry, mumbling in protest as he tried desperately to get his own avatar to catch up – Harry was near Louis’ goal and this was going to be so close-

His vision darkened and it took Louis a moment to realise that Harry had clamped his hand over Louis’ eyes.

“You little shit!” Louis wailed, grinning despite himself. “I can’t see a  _fucking thing.”_

“Am I winning yet?” Harry asked – Louis could almost  _hear_  the gleeful smile in his voice. It was the only thing that kept him from tackling Harry right there and then, demanding a rematch. Louis was highly competitive; if he was playing Niall, he would have probably punched him by now. But he wouldn’t –  _couldn’t_  – even dream of doing that to Harry – soft, kind Harry. Still, he was slightly irritated to say the least. “And he scores! Styles has beaten Tomlinson-”

“You cheated, Haz!” Louis protested, pouncing on the boy, despite his half-hard cock. He ruffled Harry’s hair, messing it up completely, shouting, “It’s not fair!”

Harry ducked out of Louis’ headlock, beaming. He poked Louis’ stomach playfully and  _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he was biting his lip again and Harry’s face was level with the waistband of Louis’ jeans and this was too much for Louis – he could barely even cope.

“All is fair in love and war.” Harry announced proudly, leaning back on the sofa with his hands behind his head. Louis was still half-sat in his lap, and he took the opportunity to lean forward and poke Harry’s dimple – Louis rarely saw Harry smile wide enough that it appeared.

A horn sounded outside and Louis flopped back on the sofa, groaning. “I don’t want to go.”

“But what about Jeans what’s-his-name?” Harry stood, glancing at himself in the mirror. While his back was turned, Louis took the opportunity to readjust himself in his jeans –  _honestly_ , why did he have to pick the tight pair? – and the release of pressure helped, if only a little, to calm his raging erection. Harry adjusted his hair, smoothing down his clothes at the same time. “The gay designer. You were excited to meet him.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. It was true; Louis really did want to meet Jean Vans – who had been one of Louis’ idols for years now – but at that moment, he’d much rather curl up with Harry and play Fifa all night – tease him, watch that smile appear on his face. He shook his head – he was turning into a right sap. When did  _Louis Tomlinson_  ever want to stay home?

“Okay, fine,” Louis grumbled. “Help me up.”

Harry offered him his hand and Louis noticed the small tattoo between his thumb and forefinger – a tattoo of a cross. He wondered briefly if Harry was a Christian – and if so, what his true opinion on homosexuality was – but then he dismissed the idea. If Harry had a problem with him, Louis would have known by now.

He took Harry’s hand, finding himself surprised by Harry’s strength – the younger boy over-shot it a bit, and Louis staggered into the television. Harry caught him before he fell though, hand flying to Louis’ hip, steadying him.

“Clumsy,” Louis scolded. “I’m not as big as you.”

Louis spoke without really thinking, as a distraction, really – he was more worried about Harry spotting his hard on. Harry’s eyes didn’t meet Louis’. His green gaze was fixed on his hand on Louis’ hip but he didn’t move it, much to Louis’ chagrin. Harry’s thumb dug into the crease between Louis’ thigh and hip, and the pressure was building in Louis’ groin, not helping his situation. He could feel Harry’s touch like fire, even through the soft material of the shirt, and he wanted nothing more than to have Harry touch him more – to never give an excuse for the younger boy to let go.

The car outside honked again.

Harry jumped away from Louis, clearing his throat awkwardly. “We’re...err...we’re late,” he said uneasily, and he turned to the bed to collect his SLR work camera, ducking his head under the strap and pocketing the Polaroid on his bedside unit – Louis was beginning to suspect he didn’t go anywhere without it.

 

-*-

 

In the back seat of the car, Harry and Louis were quiet. The nerves were starting to set in now, and neither seemed to know what to expect. Louis had already been informed that another pair of Aspire partners was going to attend the show too, and Louis wondered idly if it would be Eleanor and her partner – at least he  _knew_  her; he’d even go as far to say she was his friend.

Louis was beyond frustrated, sat in this car in the heavy silence. He was no longer hard, but his mind kept jumping to erotic thoughts and he was never far away from the threat of another erection. He didn’t know what was wrong with him – he kept telling himself it  _wasn’t_  Harry’s presence; he just hadn’t had good, rough sex in so long, his body was beginning to protest. That was all it was. He just needed to fuck someone.

Maybe he’d find someone tonight.

“Lou,” Harry spoke, a note of utter confusion in his voice. “Why do I suddenly have half a million followers on Twitter? And almost that many on Instagram – I had  _three_   _thousand_  the other day...”

Louis shrugged. “I mentioned you – maybe my viewers followed you. Would make sense.”

Harry looked up at Louis. “Are you, like, more famous than you’re letting on?”

Louis couldn’t help himself – there was too much confusion in Harry’s eyes, too much innocent doubt. He just wanted to touch him, so he did just that. He placed his hand on Harry’s thigh, and Harry’s gaze dropped from his phone to Louis’ hand.

Louis expected him to say something – to demand that Louis stop touching him, to protest that he wasn’t gay. But all he said was, “You have a small hand.” And – the fucking idiot – he took his Polaroid out and snapped a picture – a picture of Louis’ hand on Harry’s thigh – and the whirring of the mechanism warned them of the printing of the photo. Louis would have removed his hand and made some sort of derogative comment, but he didn’t want to stop touching Harry, not for a second.

“I’ve been nothing but truthful, Harry,” Louis said quietly, unable to explain his feeling of regret. Was he afraid that Harry would judge him for his fame? For his success? Surely Harry wasn’t that shallow. “I’ve got a lot of followers; people like the work I do.”

Harry still hadn’t stopped staring at Louis’ hand on his thigh. There was a crease between his eyes, and he swallowed heavily before he responded. “The YouTube videos?”

“Not just that,” Louis admitted. “Like, being involved with the LGBTQ switchboards in London – and I’ve done some of the awareness programs in the U.S., as well. I like helping people.”

“What do you do with those switchboards?” Harry asked, genuinely curious. “You must meet a lot of...like, gay people.”

Louis eyed him warily – what did he mean by that? “Of course,” he said cautiously. “I meet all sorts of people. I help them come to terms with who they are. Sometimes...sometimes it’s difficult for someone to accept that they might not be who society thinks they should be. Coming to terms with your sexuality isn’t the hardest part, Harry. Telling the world is hard.  _Fucking_  hard.”

Harry blushed. “’M not gay, Louis.”

Louis shrugged easily, not batting an eyelid. “Never said you were.” But he still didn’t remove his hand and, more importantly, Harry didn’t ask him to.

“Do you...do you get a lot of people who, like, don’t know?” Harry asked, hesitating. Louis could almost hear the uncertainty in his tone. “Like, people who are on the fence?”

“Like bisexuals?” Louis kept his tone neutral and soft – much like he did when he worked for these charities, talking to these troubled people. He didn’t want to lead Harry to think one thing, or the other. It was his choice what he thought about these kinds of charities – Louis didn’t want to form his opinion for him.

“Not bisexuals – they  _know_  they like both.” Harry sighed in frustration and Louis had a feeling he was struggling to organise his thoughts again. His words were jumbled – they were only ever like that when he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. “People who, like, think they’re straight but then...they meet someone and it’s like...the line blurs a bit. Those kind of people. Do you get those a lot?”

Harry wasn’t looking at Louis. He was still staring at Louis’ hand on his leg. Louis took a deep breath in – Harry looked so unsure, head bowed, fingers tracing the stitching on his jeans beside Louis’ hand. Louis didn’t realise until now, but he’d been subconsciously drumming his fingers against Harry’s inner thigh, dangerously close to his groin area. He stopped – but Harry’s thumb nudged Louis’ forefinger, and he knew what Harry was trying to say; he resumed the tapping, carefully daring to edge his fingers a little closer to Harry’s crotch – still in the safe zone of his thigh, but higher. Harry didn’t say anything and Louis couldn’t see Harry’s face well enough to assess his reaction –  _that_  was frustrating. Louis could barely breathe – he was actually touching Harry like this, teasing almost, but he could only imagine doing so much  _more_  – yet he managed to level his tone.

“All the time,” Louis said casually. “That’s what the Q is for – Questioning. A lot of people get confused.”

Harry looked at Louis then, green eyes dark with some undecipherable emotion. “ _I’m_  not confused.”

It took every ounce of willpower within Louis to refrain from rolling his eyes. “I thought we’d established this.”

“Good,” Harry grunted. “Because, really, Louis, I’m completely straight.”

Louis shrugged noncommittally and looked out the window. He didn’t remove his hand from Harry’s thigh – his fingers drumming just an inch from Harry’s crotch – and still, Harry didn’t ask him to.

 

-*-

 

Harry felt completely out of place – and obviously, too. They weren’t late, as such, but they weren’t early either, and hundreds of paparazzi swarmed behind the barrier segregating the red carpet. There was so many of them that Harry felt like he’d almost hit a wall of flashing lights and clicking shutters. Everything was so loud, too. Harry was so used to the quiet – so partial to it – and the noise just sort of drowned his own thoughts out, until he was nothing but a dazed shell. 

“Don’t panic, Harry,” Louis told him calmly, seeing Harry tense as they got out of the car. “I’ve been to these things before – I’ll keep you safe.”

As though they were drawn to the sound of Louis’ voice, or the car door shutting, the cameras shifted to them, and everyone was shouting – Harry had never felt so overwhelmed.

“Louis Tomlinson, how’d you feel about Arts’ Week?” They shouted, “Are you enjoying it?”

“Louis, Louis, look at me for a moment-”

“Tomlinson, who’s your friend – or are you  _more_  than that?”

“Who are you wearing? Who’s the inspiration behind your outfits?”

“You’re active in the LGBTQ community – how do you feel about gay marriage being legalized this year? Do you have anything to say to those that oppose it?”

“You have a massive following on the internet – what do you want to say to all of your fans?”

Harry knew the questions were for Louis, but he felt like they were aimed at both of them with how aggressively they were asked – and that just alienated Harry further because he didn’t know how to answer them. Louis placed his hand on Harry’s lower back, pushing him further along as he smiled politely and nodded in acknowledgement. When they were past the initial wave of photographers, Harry turned to Louis.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” he said honestly, and Louis rubbed slow circles into his back through his jacket. Harry knew he should probably tell Louis to stop – especially with how many people were watching them, like sharks waiting for its prey – but it felt nice; it was just touching, right? It was – comforting.

“Come on,” Louis said, smiling apologetically. “We should do some interviews.”

They sidled up to the barrier – Harry, if a little reluctantly – and an interviewer called Louis’ name, grabbing their attention. She had a camera around her neck, and Harry busied himself by memorising the details of it – a small Canon, 8mm lens; it was clear photography wasn’t a hobby, but just a job – to distract himself from the nervous turning of his stomach.

“Hi,” Louis said brightly. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” she replied happily. “My name is Judy – can I just ask a few questions for E! News?”

“Sure,” Louis responded easily. He turned to Harry, offering him a reassuring smile. “This is my friend: Harry Styles. He’s working with me over Arts’ Week to promote talent across the globe through the internet. He’s shy and a novice in regards to media, so no invasive questions, alright?”

Harry was stunned by all of this – the way Louis seemed to command the interviewer’s attention like that, make demands to protect Harry’s interests; it was almost like Louis was in charge of the interview and not the other way around. He commanded power and respect; an aura of – not exactly  _comfort_  but effortlessness seemed to ooze from him. It was trait Harry wished he shared.

“Of course,” the girl smiled easily at Harry – warm and welcoming, though there was a hint of something bitter behind the smile; the jaded smile of someone who worked in media, Harry supposed. The limelight changed people. “Camera and mic is live-” She cut herself off to turn to the lens.

“Hi, I’m Judy Lace and here I am on the summer fashion show red carpet in London with YouTube sensation Louis Tomlinson and budding photographer Harry Styles!” She announced, glancing at the two of them as though to check they hadn’t scarpered off while her back was turned. “Louis, what do you think of this?”

“Well,” Louis said ironically. “We haven’t actually managed to get inside yet. I mean, we only just arrived, but everyone’s looking well-dressed and some of the pieces-” He shook his head disbelievingly. “I keep telling Harry how easy it is to forget how talented some people are – I mean, I kind of feel inadequate; I make videos –‘s not too hard!”

“Don’t put yourself down, Louis!” The interviewer grinned. “So of course, over the summer you did some major work with LGF and Stonewall to promote encouragements to those suffering with homophobic bullying and those who are struggling with their own sexuality-”

Louis seemed impressed. Harry could see the surprised gleam in his eyes – he wanted to take a picture of it, but now probably wasn’t the right time. He was socially inept, yes, but not a complete idiot. “You’ve done your research,” Louis said proudly.

“I watch your videos,” the girl laughed nervously. “All the time.”

Understanding lit Louis’ grin. “That’s great – thank you for watching,” he said, delighted. “But yeah, I did some work – it’s always nice helping people and – you know, those who live those kind of lives where they know who they are and they want to spread love but they can’t because they’re...trapped by their families, or friends, or sometimes even  _themselves_  – It’s just nice to help them, be there for them. My coming out experience was easy, so I always try and make other people’s experiences more like mine. It’s very rewarding, for me. I’m a firm believer in equality across the board. It shouldn’t matter who you love...”

Harry watched Louis speak, captivated by the passion in his stormy blue eyes. There was something so beautiful about this – about seeing Louis talk about something he truly rooted for; he noticed the way Louis’ eyes flared with interest, the way he rocked back on his heels, hands behind his back – never quite rid of his wild energy. He noticed the way Louis’ lips were curved into a small smile – down playing how keyed up he was. Harry noticed it all, and the warmth in his chest swelled and his eyes watered almost painfully, and he had to blink several times when the interviewer mentioned his name, just to tune into what was actually being said.

“So Louis – is there anything going on with you and Harry behind the scenes? When the cameras are off – excuse my pun. Are you just friends or  _dating_  or...”

Harry cut in quick. “I’m not gay.”

Louis’ jaw clenched and the light faded from his eyes. Nobody else noticed it, but Harry did, and for some unexplainable reason, he felt awful.  _Guilty_ , almost.

He shook the feeling off, feeling as though he had to do some damage control before he seriously hurt Louis’ feelings – though, why should it matter what Louis thought of Harry’s sexuality? “Louis is a great person to just, like, sit and – kind of like – admire what he’s like...but-” he shook his head, struggling to get the words out. “We’re not together – that way. No.”

Harry was painfully aware of Louis’ silence – and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved by it or disappointed. He told himself he was disappointed; Louis could have backed him up, clarified their friendship, too. But he just – he didn’t. He just kept rocking back and forth on his feet, lips pressed into a thin line.

The interviewer seemed almost disappointed. “I think you’d make an excellent couple.”

“Thanks,” Louis said, perking up. “It’s all his charm, you see. Harry’s wonderfully charming – whichever  _girl_  wins him over is very bloody lucky.”

Harry chose to ignore the emphasis on ‘girl’, and a shot of irritation jolted through him at Louis’ obvious insinuation.

“Okay, one last question – real quick.” Judy said, gesturing wildly to get Louis’ attention – he was too busy looking down the red carpet, eyes on somebody else. Harry longed to know who it was. “So the two of you are paired up for Arts’ Week – Louis, you’re promoting Harry’s talent, right? If you could say something about Harry’s photography, what would you say?”

Louis didn’t even hesitate. “It’s beautiful. Inspiring.” Louis said, glancing at Harry with bright eyes. Harry noticed an eyelash was resting just below his eye – he’d tell Louis about that in a moment. “If he could embrace everything about himself the way he embraced his photography, he wouldn’t feel so depreciative of himself. If he could see himself the way I see him-” Louis cut off then, shaking his head – almost like he’d said too much. Harry flushed, hating the way his stomach contracted almost painfully with pleasure. How  _did_  Louis see him? Did Louis really respect him the way he said he did?

Later, when most of the red carpet photographers had left, having captured the entrance shots, Louis announced, “Show starts in twenty minutes. I’m going to get a drink. You want one?”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t think he’d ever recover from the hangover he’d woken up with after they’d gotten drunk together – and was that really only last night? It felt like years ago, like he’d known Louis for a lot longer than that.

“Suit yourself,” Louis grumbled. “When I’m back, I’ll introduce you to Sam; he arrived earlier when we were doing that interview. We can have a good, old chat.”

Harry wanted to ask, “Who’s Sam?” But Louis was already gone, making his way towards the bar. Harry shrugged, only a little put out that he was now alone, and used the time to take pictures. He switched from his SLR to his Polaroid when he caught the way the spotlight on the stage hit the metal beam of the safety bar – nothing really prominent stood out in the picture, it wasn’t even significant really, but it was beautiful to Harry – and he hadn’t used his Polaroid for something that  _wasn’t_  Louis in what felt like ages.

He tucked the picture in the inside pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing against the picture he’d taken earlier of Louis’ hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry swallowed, ignoring the twisting of his stomach. He remembered the weight of Louis’ hand on his leg, remembered his fingers brushing the stretch just below his groin – it had been...foreign but not unwelcome. It had woken something up inside Harry, something that had stirred deep in Harry’s gut. It’d been kind of confusing, because he’d never felt comfortable with another guy touching him like that, but with Louis  _everything_  seemed comfortable – and Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

He’d keep the picture though – because there was something beautiful in the way Louis’ hand had been so small on Harry’s thigh, and yet it had caused the biggest trigger in his emotional stability – so much so that Harry barely knew how to cope.

When Louis got back, he was definitely more giggly and open; Harry suspected he’d taken at least two shots consecutively at the bar and was returning now with a third. He hid his grimace – he was in a foreign place, and he didn’t want Louis to be drunk and incoherent; he was the only chance Harry had of making it out of this place alive – he was Harry’s lifeline.

“Lou,” Harry muttered, nudging him slightly as they made their way over to the gang of people Louis was leading them to. “You’re not planning on – um, getting wasted – are you?”

“Just drowning my emotions, Harold,” Louis said airily, turning to him. Harry’s gaze latched onto his face – and there was that eyelash again. Before he could think about what he was doing, he framed Louis’ face in his hands, tilting his head up. There was something tender resting on top of the warmth in Harry’s chest, something he’d only ever felt around his family. Affection, perhaps?

Louis’ lips parted in surprise as he took Harry in, pupils dilating, but he didn’t pull away. There was something undecipherable in his blue eyes – something Harry couldn’t figure out. He smoothed his thumb beneath Louis’ eye – and Louis didn’t even flinch.

There was too much trust involved in this, Harry thought. Too much trust shared between them considering they’d only known each other for two days. He was so careful, though, gently brushing the eyelash away, so careful not to scare Louis, or to hurt him. For once, Louis seemed fragile to Harry – the roles were reversed; now Harry felt like he had to take care of him instead of the other way around. It was a fleeting thought – probably sparked from Louis’ tipsiness – but it resounded in Harry’s gut, and he found himself smiling softly.

“Gentle,” Louis commented quietly – barely a whisper. His lashes brushed against Harry’s hand as he blinked and  _oh_ ,  _God_  – he was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever set eyes upon. “You’re so gentle, Harry.”

Harry just hummed in response; he didn’t know what to say. He still hadn’t let go of Louis’ face, and though the lash was long since gone, he kept brushing his thumb across Louis’ cheekbone anyway, his mind on overdrive. He  _liked_  doing this – liked seeing the warm fondness in Louis’ eyes when Harry touched him. He liked holding Louis like this, like he was small and delicate and easily wounded. Harry felt a surge of protectiveness within him. Louis was precious. Precious and beautiful. Anyone foolish enough to hurt him was...inhuman, Harry thought. Heartless.

“Louis!”

Harry stepped back as though he’d been shot, eyes wide with alarm. Louis didn’t react for a moment, however – he just stared at Harry with slicked, parted lips and a slight flush to his cheeks. Harry looked away, clearing his throat awkwardly, and Louis snapped out of his reverie.

“That’s Sam,” Louis muttered, waving to the boy who’d called him. “Super stoked to meet him – he’s been my fave since he came on the YouTube scene. Wouldn’t mind tapping  _that_  ass, of course.”

Harry scowled at the uncomfortable silence that followed  _that_  comment, unable to explain why he was so displeased by the thought. He cleared his throat. “Is he nice?”

Louis shrugged. “Seems like a right lad in front of the camera, but I’ve never met him. He’s the type who’s always up for a laugh.”

“ _I’d_  be up for a laugh,” Harry said pointedly, and then he cringed. It was one of those comments that sounded a lot less creepy in his head. “I mean...”

Louis didn’t even give Harry a second thought – and Harry felt pretty damn pushed out, if he was honest. Already resentful of this Sam guy, he wasn’t really up for a  _good, old chat_  as Louis put it. Nonetheless, he followed Louis over to him.

Sam turned out to be a blonde guy. He was very attractive, Harry had to admit, with a tanned body and startlingly hard blue eyes. His hair was tousled artfully over to the side and when he caught sight of Louis, he seemed to – Harry wasn’t sure if he was imagining it –  _leer_ , almost. There was certainly something about him that wasn’t pleasant, that was for sure.

“Louis, my mate,” Sam greeted, pulling him in for a hug without hesitation. Harry felt a shot of envy pulse through him, ugly and dark.  _He_  was the one who should hug Louis – not this blonde, chiselled, random stranger. “So good to finally meet you.”

Louis flushed and stuttered slightly – Harry would have been endeared by it if wasn’t for the fact that he was obviously  _flustered_. “We’ve been trying to run into each other for ages,” he finally managed and Harry almost rolled his eyes.

“Congrats on the 7 million subscribers,” Sam acknowledged but Harry thought he was looking over Louis’ shoulder as opposed to  _at_  him. Harry bit his lip to keep from saying something he’d regret.

“I didn’t even know I’d hit it,” Louis said, his voice considerably smaller. If Harry wasn’t mistaken, he sounded a little deflated. “Maybe you’d like to do a collab sometime?”

“Maybe,” Sam said, and this time, his eyes did light up. “You’d link me in your channel?”

Louis shrugged. “Sure,” he said, more at ease by Sam’s newfound willingness. Harry narrowed his eyes. He got the impression Sam couldn’t care less about Louis as a person, but that he was more worried about getting a mention on Louis’ infinitely-more-famous-than-his channel. Harry didn’t like that – he felt like Louis was on the road to getting used. He kept quiet though. After all, Harry knew nothing about the ‘YouTube scene’.

“We can film it tonight – when the after-show party is over – and post it up once this week’s over. If you’re not too wasted, of course,” Sam said, accidentally shoving his weight into the boy next to him. The boy staggered, looking as though he’d been stabbed. Harry hadn’t noticed him before, but he loitered behind Sam, hiding almost, so he didn’t beat himself up over not spotting him. He looked around sixteen – shy and nervous and if Harry was honest, he looked a little  _sick_. There were shadows under his eyes, and he kept glancing left and right as though he was afraid something was going to attack him. Harry knew nerves well, but even  _he_  wasn’t that panicked.

“Oh, err,” Louis faltered, glancing at Harry.

“We weren’t planning on attending the after-show party,” Harry said firmly. His mind was begging him to shut up, to stop talking, but the thought of Louis hanging out with this asshole whilst drunk was making Harry’s muscles coil with tension and his teeth grit with annoyance. He definitely didn’t want that.

Louis stared at Harry incredulously. “We weren’t?”

Harry shook his head. “We definitely weren’t,” he said. “I don’t like parties.”

Sam rolled his shoulders back, looking Harry up and down – finally noticing him for the first time. Hostility lingered in the air like mist on an icy day, and the only thing that kept Harry rooted to the spot – instead of running for the hills like he wanted to do – was Louis next to him.

“Who are you?”

Harry held his hand out, relieved to see that he wasn’t trembling. “Harry Styles,” he said, and he was surprised by the hardness in his own tone. He’d expected his voice to waver, or even give way, like it always did when he got himself in sticky situations with intimidating guys. Harry didn’t like conflict, or even sticking up for himself, but he didn’t like this guy more. “Louis’ collab partner.”

“You fucking him?”

Harry clamped his lips together and flushed. “No,” he said confidently.

“Great,” Sam said, apparently pleased. “We’ll get along just fine then.”

The way he said it – Harry wasn’t sure if they would. He almost wished he could have answered Sam’s question differently, if it meant that he would stop looking at Louis like  _that_.

“I’m right here, you know,” Louis waved, gaze flicking from Harry to Sam nervously. Neither paid attention to him; they were locked in a tense stalemate, neither wanting to give power to the other. Finally, Sam looked away, smirking slightly, and Harry kind of wished he hadn’t – because at least then he wouldn’t have his cold eyes fixed on Louis –  _his_  Louis. Louis was precious – couldn’t be hurt by people like Sam – and Harry knew he was letting his anxiety of the situation get to him because his thoughts weren’t even making sense.

He tried desperately to change the subject, to fill the tension-filled silence that had settled over them. “Who’s your collab partner?”

Sam shrugged, almost as if he couldn’t care less about the small boy stood behind him. Harry thought if Louis looked at him like that – the way Sam was looking at his partner – he would have quit on the first day. Screw the competition – no one deserved that amount of hatred and discontent. “His name’s...what’s your name again?”

“Johnny,” the boy squeaked, edging away from Sam as if he’d bitten him. “I design comics.”

Interest piqued, Harry leaned around Sam to gain the boy’s attention. “That’s awesome – can I see?”

The boy reached for his satchel, but Sam’s hand clamped around his wrist, freezing his movements. Harry scowled on behalf of the boy, but he kept his mouth shut – watching. “We don’t have time to do this now,” Sam snapped. “The catwalk’s about to start. You can show this dude later.”

Harry wasn’t a violent person – he’d never hit anyone in his life – but right now, in this moment, he’d never wanted to punch anyone more. His hands clenched into fists at his side, quivering in anger, but he refrained from snapping back; there were far too many cameras about, monitoring their behaviour, far too many watching eyes for them to fight.

“Louis,” Harry said, placing a hand on Louis’ arm. “We should take our seats.”

Louis was grinning like an idiot – maybe he’d had more drinks than he’d let on; he was definitely acting weird. “But it’s Sam...” he whined. “I’ve wanted to meet him for ages.”

Sam looked like someone had just brought him a massive wad of cash. “No chill, dude,” he said, shaking his head smugly. “It’s your fault the fans have been whinging for months over us meeting. The constant ‘Souis’ shit is irritating, if I’m honest.” He tried to play it off as a joke – and Louis laughed as if it was the most hilarious thing in the world. Something turned in Harry’s stomach, angry and sour.

“That’s not very nice,” Harry spoke without meaning to, the words falling accidentally from his mouth. “Don’t insult your fans, man. Not cool. You’d be nowhere without them.”

Louis seemed to remember Harry was there, then. “Babe,” he slurred and Harry tried to ignore the shot of pride he felt at hearing the nickname. It was easily ignored, if he focused on the concern he felt for Louis, who was quickly becoming very drunk. “You’re right! Rule 1, Oakwood – don’t diss the fans.”

Sam shrugged, pulling a lighter from his pocket. He flicked it absentmindedly, gaze thoughtful. “You should come to the party tonight,” he said, turning to Louis with dark eyes. His back was to Harry – and if that wasn’t a rejection, Harry didn’t know what was. He didn’t care though; he just gave Johnny a reassuring smile. Hesitantly, the boy smiled back, but nervousness and fear lay beneath the relief. Harry wanted to question it, but in this situation – on his own, with drunk Louis beside him – he didn’t dare.

“Maybe I will,” Louis said obliviously and Harry rolled his eyes. Of course he’d go to the party when Harry explicitly said he didn’t want to go. Was he deliberately trying to piss him off?

“Do whatever you want,” Harry said, taking a deep, calming breath. “I’m not coming.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Harry like he was nothing but an annoying pest. “No one invited you, mate.”

Harry didn’t even bother to respond to that. He inhaled deeply, trying to summon some of the courage he felt he was lacking. Honestly, his knees were trembling, he was so scared. He really didn’t want to come to blows with Sam – he was Louis’ friend after all – but the guy was such a possessive  _dick_.

“’S okay, Haz,” Louis said, kinder still. Harry was glad there was still that softness in his voice – it was the only sense of familiarity he had in this goddamn place. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel when the party’s over.”

Harry shrugged, trying not to show how hurt he was. He intertwined his fingers in Louis’, the way he'd done to Harry at the fashion boutique, and pulled him away from Sam. “Show’s starting. Um...Gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Johnny.”

Johnny smiled briefly, before he caught Sam’s glare and the smile dropped from his face. Harry pressed his lips together. Sam was an asshole. Harry didn’t know what he’d done or said to Johnny, but whatever it was, Harry thought he was a complete asshole because of it.

“See?” Louis beamed at him, swiping another shot from the tray of a passing waitress. “Cool dude, huh?”

“Epic,” Harry said sarcastically. “Can we not talk about him?”

Louis gave him a weird look before settling in his seat. His ankle hooked around Harry’s, and honestly he couldn’t be more protective of the half-tipsy, older boy, so he didn’t really care what the constant touching looked like to the eagle-like media seekers. He just wanted to keep Louis safe, away from Sam if he could help it.

“Lou,” he said softly, as the lights beamed down on the catwalk. “Do you have to go to the party?”

Louis was stubborn, though, and he nodded vigorously – the alcohol well and truly owning his movements now. “Sure, I’ll hail a cab back to the hotel after – don’t worry about me, babe.”

Unfortunately, for Harry, that was easier said than done.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Louis was very out of the closet – he wasn’t flamboyant, as such – but he made his sexuality known wherever he was. He’d fucked loads of men – some cute, feminine boys, a few masculine, buff men – and he’d been fucked equally as many times. He’d shared a good time with submissive partners and had almost as much fun with those that were more dominant than him. In fact, he was lucky in the sense that he’d never really had a sexual experience that he hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed.

Until now.

Louis was completely wasted by the time Sam dragged him into the men’s toilets. Harry had long since gone home, making Louis promise to call him if he came into any problems at all, and Louis had partied hard and fast, drinking more than he ever had in his life.

Sam’s hands were firm on his arms, clamp-like, almost cutting off circulation. Louis tangled his hands in Sam’s hair, pressing a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss to his mouth. He tasted of beer and cigarettes, and Louis would have willingly kissed him more, had Sam not gripped his wrists with a vice-like quality and yanked his hands away.

“Don’t touch me,” he commanded roughly. “Just suck.”

Louis was too drunk to care about the cold, hard floor as he got down on his knees. He barely had time to register his surprise at Sam’s harsh tone before his fingers were fumbling inelegantly with Sam’s zipper. Sam rapped his hand against Louis’ face impatiently, the sharp sound of slapped flesh resounding around the bathroom, almost making Louis wince. He probably would have got up then – if he was sober – and refused to do anything for the demanding bastard but he found he was too drunk to react, and he just let Sam pull down his jeans and boxers, and then Louis’ mouth was on his cock.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam breathed, as Louis’ tongue flicked out reluctantly over the head of his dick. He tipped his head back, moaning in ecstasy, as Louis’ mouth took him in, sucking hard until his cheeks hollowed. “You’ve been desperate for this dick, Tomlinson. I know you have. Show me how good you are, pretty boy.  _Suck my fucking cock.”_

Louis wasn’t really a fan of possessive, filthy talk if he was honest; it made his skin break out in shivers, but still, this was Sam – he had an amazing body, and Louis’d had a crush on him for the last year. So he lowered his head over Sam’s erection until he was coughing and spluttering, too drunk to coordinate his throat to open around him properly. Sam’s fingers wound in Louis’ hair – so tight it hurt – and he thrust his hips into Louis’ face without permission, vigorously fucking Louis’ mouth.

“Argh,” Louis protested, pressing a hand against Sam’s thigh to stop his movements. He  _didn’t_  stop, and he swatted Louis’ hand away carelessly, thrusting harder and quicker until Louis could barely breathe through the pain.

“Let me fuck your pretty little mouth,” Sam growled, pulling tight on Louis’ hair. Louis’ eyes pricked with tears at the pain of it – his throat was taking a serious pounding – but he couldn’t move out of Sam’s grip and he was too drunk to even comprehend standing up, right now. His back was starting to hurt from the awkward position, and his throat was  _burning_ , and all he could hear was Sam’s possessive voice.

“I bet your fucking collab partner won’t touch you now, twink,” he muttered and Louis winced at the offensive term but didn’t say anything – he was in too vulnerable of a position to really pick a fight with Sam over a derogative word. “He won’t want to touch you if my cock’s been in your mouth.  _Shame_  – you should have seen how he looked at you. All doe-eyed and pathetically keening. Love-sick bastard.”

Louis coughed, his gag reflex crying out mercilessly, and with Sam’s words came Harry’s face, ingrained behind his eyelids. He couldn’t shed the memory of the hurt look in his green eyes when Louis declined to come home with him, and Louis had never regretted anything more than he regretted that decision. He’d do anything to be curled up on the sofa with his Harry, his soft, kind, gentle Harry – who’d never do anything like this to Louis.

Still, Louis thought he might as well get this over with, since he kind of initiated it. He took Sam’s cock with something like renewed bravery, with Harry’s face in Louis’ mind as motivation – though he’d really rather be anywhere else. His eyes stung with the pain of his throat and his hair yanked in Sam’s fist; tears threatened.

“Cry and I hit you, pretty boy,” Sam spat, his breaths coming out in short spurts as he fucked Louis’ mouth. “You need to learn to take cock like a man. You’re so quick to prance around on the internet – king of YouTube, and all. You need to start fucking acting like it – take my cock deeper, Tomlinson... _Deeper_.”

Louis made a noise of protest – he’d tear his throat apart if he went any deeper – but Sam ignored him, pushing harder and harder into Louis’ mouth until the tears streamed unwillingly from his eyes and he was spluttering desperately. Sam shoved his shoulder brutally, Louis’ spine hitting the bathroom sink with a painful thud. Sam advanced, grabbing Louis’ chin between his fingers.

“Come on, twink. Make me come in your mouth,” Sam urged, eyes dark with something like controlled fury. “Let me fucking  _own_  you.”

“What – the fuck-” Louis managed to gasp out – but there was a part of him, a substantial part, that was terrified of disappointing Sam, of making him more angry than he already was. So when he practically forced his cock back into Louis’ mouth, Louis didn’t really protest; he just sucked and spat and licked with new efforts, trying desperately to please him because –  _shit_  – he didn’t want Sam to hurt him again. His scalp was already bruised and his back was smarting from hitting the sink – he just wanted this to be over with already. He wasn’t even hard in his pants anymore – and the effect of the alcohol was dimmed by the pain in his throat – but he still moved his lips over Sam’s dick with emotionless precision, like he’d done this for years.

A sharp sting blinded him briefly and he gasped with white-hot pain, choking because his throat was already full. It took him a moment to realise Sam really  _had_  slapped him across his face. He made a sound of anger, a threatening growl, but Sam just roughly dried his tears away with calloused thumbs, pressing harshly into Louis’ cheekbones.

“Don’t you get fucking pissed off with me, Tomlinson,” Sam hissed, glaring down at him as Louis pumped his dick in his mouth. “You  _started it_. You chose to suck my cock. You chose to cry like a baby afterwards. You chose this. So don’t fucking pin it on me.”

Louis was so fucking tempted to bite it was unreal, but he was also shit-scared of what the consequences would be if he did so. He sucked at Sam’s head, tasting the bitter flavour of his pre-come. He felt a bit sick, if he was honest, and he wasn’t sure if that was because of the disgusted revulsion he felt in his gut, the acrid taste of Sam’s come, or the churning of the alcohol in his stomach. He brought his mouth off Sam’s dick with an audible pop, muttering, “you fucking bastard,” before putting his mouth back on, sucking with an effort that he hoped  _hurt_  more than anything.

He let his teeth graze, testing – just lightly – and Sam whacked his hand against Louis’ head again, making his pounding headache blind him temporarily. If Louis didn’t have concussion, or at least a pain in his head, tomorrow morning, it would be a bloody miracle. Tears threatened once more, but Louis held them back – out of dignity more than anything, now. This was a test of wills, and Louis wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Don’t you know how to suck a cock, Tomlinson? It doesn’t involve  _teeth_. Bite me again and I swear to God I’ll chop yours off.”

Through the hazy drunkenness that was the alcohol in his bloodstream, Louis managed to think,  _fucking psycho,_ before he was moaning in pain again – Sam’s hands wrenching on his hair too hard – he was sure his scalp was going to kill when he washed his hair tomorrow, especially under the high-powered hotel showerhead; the bruising was too tender, even now.

“I’m going to come,” Sam swore loudly, “Fuck, oh shit, I’m going to come in your pretty little mouth,  _claim_  you...”

Louis tried to lift his head off Sam – he really didn’t want to taste his pungent come – but Sam pushed his head back down again, until Louis’ gag reflex was activated and he was choking so much he couldn’t breathe, flailing wildly, and Sam was gasping as he spurted down Louis’ throat. Louis’ stomach protested, flipping aggressively, and he was still gagging even when Sam pulled out, his body trying to dispel the unwelcome liquid. Louis spat on the ground at Sam’s feet, and Sam smacked him again.

“You fucking  _bastard_ ,” Louis repeated shakily, but no sound came out – his throat was well and truly wrecked. He stood, knees trembling with shock and pain, and spat again, watching with satisfaction as his come-coloured saliva landed on Sam’s cheek. “ _Fuck you,_ ” he wheezed, breathless and fuck – he was  _hurting_. “Fuck you.”

He walked out before Sam could see the tears fall down his face.

 

-*-

 

When Harry opened the hotel room door, he was overcome with a sense of profound loneliness. This was their hotel room – not his. It was meant for sharing; Harry and Louis, Louis and Harry. It was something they held together.

It didn’t feel right that Harry was entering it alone.

Sure, Louis would join him later, probably wasted out of his mind and maybe even freshly fucked. Harry didn’t like to dwell on the thought – he  _really_  didn’t like to dwell on the thought.

He tossed his camera bags on his bed, feeling exhausted, and stripped his jacket from his shoulders, hanging it neatly in the wardrobe. The controllers to the PlayStation lay where they’d left them, sprawled haphazardly on the sofa. Harry smiled at the memory of Louis’ competitiveness; he was so beautiful when he was like that – happy and free and completely uncontained. Harry remembered how much his chest had swelled when Louis had tried getting him into a headlock – so much affection for a boy he barely knew. Harry shook his head, smile twitching at his lips.

He headed straight for the shower – the water helped clear his thoughts, and he never liked settling in the evening feeling sweaty and gross. He wanked off again, because he was alone and because he could, and he tried not to feel too uncomfortable by the fact that he really could not get it up when he thought of all those runway models he’d seen that night, dressed in billowing gowns and revealing shirts – and the only thing to fix this was Louis.

So Harry shamefully wanked off to thoughts of Louis again, only feeling slightly less embarrassed by the fact that Louis wasn’t actually  _here_  this time, so it was a less riskier for him. When he was done, he made a point of washing himself twice over – if Louis found another bead of come on him tonight, Harry thought he might die.

He dried himself and pulled on a pair of boxers, setting himself on the floor – legs crossed – with pictures and portfolio pieces and cameras sprawled around him. Louis was an admirable model, because he really had no clue how beautiful and wild he was. Harry thought this as he gathered all his pictures of Louis and put them in one pile: some of the Polaroid snaps over the last two days and all the SLR pictures from the market that day – even some of the sneaky photos that Louis didn’t even know he had; one of him turning away from him to look out the car window, another of him barrelling down the beach after a sea gull like a four-year-old kid. He had one of Louis jumping off the sea wall, only to roll in the sand and get himself filthy. Harry thumbed out another in his pile of Louis once he’d recovered from the jump, a layer of sand over his face. Harry had been particularly struck by Louis’ eyes then – startlingly blue beneath the golden sand – bright with a fondness that Harry had come to recognise as fondness for  _him_. Louis had also stolen Harry’s bandana before that shot – and it was tied around his hair in a precarious fashion, leading Harry to wonder if Louis had ever  _seen_  someone wear a bandana like that, because he certainly hadn’t.

Harry placed all the pictures in his university file – he couldn’t wait to sort through that and make his showcase pieces.

For the Aspire project, though, he placed all the other ones – the non-Louis shots, among other things. Snaps from the fashion show, slips of fabric he’d found in the textile tent at the art market. He even had a vinyl record of a piece of European music he’d found particularly beautiful that afternoon – it was a peaceful, antique piece. Harry thought it represented unfounded talent, because it deserved so much more attention than it had received.

Harry sorted that into a pile and began to arrange it in an order he could work with. Once he was done with that, he got up and moved to the wardrobe, digging out the Polaroid snaps he’d left in all his jacket pockets recently. These were the best pictures – they were the ones Harry kept separate from all of his professional projects, because these were private. Harry dug around his duffel bag for his journal, and flicked open the brown leather-bound book to the nearest empty page. He stuck the Polaroid pictures in randomly and unevenly – a trait he’d kept with all along. There was Gemma laughing on the tube, and the picture of Louis when they first bumped into each other on the street, and one of the dying spider on the road in the sunlight. He remembered looking up at Louis then on the street, remembered being completely breathless by the way the sunlight filtered around his form, lighting all of his most perfect features, and Harry had taken a photo without even realising, because he couldn’t just let that pass by unnoticed.

Harry was beginning to think that a lot about Louis.

He flicked through the old photos he’d taken – some from years ago. There was his mother, Anne, covering Gemma’s eyes as she led her into the room to see her prom dress. There was his father sat on a boat with Gemma, tickling her until she screamed hysterically. Harry remembered it well.

He missed his family so much.

“Harry, darling, is everything alright?” His mother answered on the first ring. He pressed the phone to his ear firmly, as though the added pressure could somehow make him closer to them.

“Yeah, mum,” Harry said quietly. “I just miss you.”

“Oh, baby, I miss you too.” Anne cooed. “Gemma tells me you’ve been working with a YouTuber?”

“Um...yeah,” Harry said warily. He wasn’t sure what he could admit about Louis – and Harry’s friendship with him. His stepfather, Robin, wasn’t very fond of homosexuality in general and – though he wasn’t...outright homophobic – like, he didn’t offend gay people – Harry thought the disapproval was clear. Nonetheless, his mother wasn’t like that – she didn’t judge. Gemma wasn’t like that either. “He’s a really nice guy. Very gay,” Harry said weakly, cringing at his word choice. Why did he feel the need to insert that into conversation? It wasn’t a defining characteristic of Louis – he could have chosen much better things like he’s loud or funny or brave or annoying-as-hell or competitive or fond or witty. He could have chosen to mention his very beautiful blue eyes, or his condescending yet provocative mouth. He could have mentioned that Louis just happened to be – by chance – the most beautiful man Harry’s ever seen.

Very gay? It didn’t really sum Louis up.

His mother seemed to agree. “So? Do you get along?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. Did they get along? Like flashbacks of memories, Harry saw Louis helping him up when they crashed on the street, steadying him when he fell down the stairs at the conference. He remembered Louis’ words on their first night:  _“I think you’re beautiful, Harry._ ” He remembered his steady fingers helping him untie the knot in his sweats, remembered the way he nuzzled into Harry’s shoulder while he slept. He remembered Louis’ bright eyes, flared with light whenever Harry spoke, as though he was truly listening to what Harry had to say. He’d never have anyone close enough to care about what he thought before, and the idea of Louis showing interest in Harry’s opinions was enough to be addictive.

But still, did they get along? Harry could still see the teasing glint in Louis’ blue eyes as he sucked the bead of Harry’s come from his finger, mortifying him – he could still feel Louis’ fingers thread through his as they fought their way through paparazzi outside the designer’s boutique. The ghost of Louis’ arm over his shoulders at the beach remained in Harry’s head, weighing heavily, and he still remembered what it felt like to have Louis’ thighs clamp around his as he battled Harry into a headlock, ruffling his hair insufferably because he’d lost a game of Fifa. He swore he could still feel Louis’ fingers drumming against the inside of his leg as they sat in that car; he could definitely feel the small, lazy circles Louis had massaged into the small of his back at the show tonight.

_Did_  they get along? “He’s great,” Harry said weakly, feeling slightly overwhelmed by his own emotions. “I care about him a lot.”

Anne was completely oblivious to Harry’s mini-epiphany. “That’s good, then! You have to spend the rest of the week with him, after all.”

Harry grinned and then remembered his mother couldn’t see him. “Yeah, yeah, I do. There’s loads planned for us, though, so I don’t think I’ll get to spend...” Harry wasn’t even sure how he was going to finish that sentence. “Um...like, one-on-one time. Like, just...err...me and him – no cameras.”

“Don’t they give you breaks?”

Harry had no idea. “Louis’ knows the schedule – I just kind of follow him. I’ll ask him when he gets back. Oh, and I’m using him as my model for my final showcase.”

“Christ, love, you must really get along with him.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled casually, wondering if he should have told his mother anything after all. “Like I said: he’s great.”

They chatted some more, and he heard Gemma wish him well from a distance – the tinny echo of her voice reverberating through the phone. “She’s in the shower,” Anne explained and Harry nodded – again forgetting he couldn’t be seen.

“Tell her I love her,” Harry said, an almost desperate quality to his voice. “And I love you. I should go.”

“Okay, darling,” Anne agreed. “I love you – always, son. Call me when you can.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, unable to explain how utterly trapped he felt right now. “Um,” he started. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Anything.”

“Can you ignore all the tabloids and magazines tomorrow?” Harry ran a hand over his face, troubled. “I just...I think they’re going to print lies about me and Louis, and, like, I don’t want you to have to read that.”

Anne seemed to hesitate. “Okay,” she said eventually. “Okay, son. Have a good night’s sleep – don’t forget to take your inhaler if you start to feel panicky, alright?”

“Yeah, mum,” he mumbled, stunned that even when they were miles apart, she could still read him so easily. Because he  _was_  panicking, even if he wasn’t strictly sure what over. “G’Night.”

“Night, son.”

Harry stared at his phone for a long time. He posted a picture of his camera – all pulled apart by its bolts and switches and clamps – with the caption  _Inner Workings_ on Instagram, before he locked it, screen going blank. He fidgeted for a minute, toying with his mind, before he unlocked it again to send Louis a text.

_Hope you’re okay – waiting for you to come home safe._

When Louis didn’t reply, he re-built his camera and abandoned his work – sprawled all over the floor. He climbed into Louis’ bed, inhaling the scent of the older boy from his pillow. He curled up into a fetal position – arms crossed over his chest – and fell asleep, trying desperately to ignore his own heartache.

 

-*-

 

Louis slammed the taxi door shut and staggered towards the hotel main entrance. He kicked a crushed cola can across the car park, feeling darkly satisfied by the way it clanged in the silence of the night. He stormed into the main entrance and jammed his finger against the elevator call button.

Honestly, his throat was  _burning_ , and he had this ridiculous urge to throw up and cry at the same time.

The elevator pinged and the door opened. Louis stumbled inside, pressing blindly at all the buttons in the hope that they’d eventually lead him to his floor.

It wasn’t like he’d never given epic blow jobs before – ones that were so deep and so hard they’d made him lose his voice like this. He had. He liked pleasing his partners in bed. It was just...Sam was such a disappointment and he was almost a shock to Louis’ system. Louis had only given him a blow job – unwillingly, even – and he felt fully  _wrecked_  – he was bruised all over, his eyes were red with unshed tears, and his hair – well, if a paparazzo caught him now.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, moaning softly. He’d never felt so vulnerable, never felt so alone. His face and head was lightly bruised under the skin from where Sam had slapped him – though when he looked in the elevator mirrors it was undetectable. His lips were cracked and sore, his throat was  _fucked_ , his eyes were swollen. His back was bruised and aching from his awkward position and hitting the sink. His wrists were ringed in red where Sam’s fingers had dug in. His scalp was on fire – honestly, it’d be a miracle if Louis had any hairs left.

He didn’t expect Sam to be so cruel. There was dominant and powerful, and then there was just plain  _brutal_.

Louis wasn’t a twink – he wasn’t weak or fragile and he really could stand up for himself when he needed to. Hell, he’d stood up for fucking thousands of teenagers when their parents rejected them because of their sexuality, or their friends bullied them. Louis was all about standing up for what he believed in. But in that moment, stood in the aftermath of what happened with Sam, in this tiny – frankly claustrophobic elevator – Louis had never felt so small, so pathetic.

He let out a whine through his lips, but no sound came out. His fucking  _throat_.

When Louis finally made his way down the hall of his room, glancing over his shoulder suspiciously, as though expecting Sam to have followed, he shakily let himself in.

All the anger and frustration left him when he saw Harry, curled in on himself in Louis’ bed. Louis’ shoulders dropped as the tension in his body drained, and he smiled softly, picking his way through the room with care. Harry hadn’t touched the PlayStation – it lay in exactly the same place they’d left it before – and his bed was still made. The only thing he’d apparently done all night was work on his photography. And sleep in Louis’ bed, with Louis’ throw pulled tight over his half-naked body.

Louis knelt down beside the pictures on the floor, listening to Harry’s steady breathing – the only noise in the silent room. He thumbed a small brown journal curiously – Harry’s private journal – but he didn’t open it. He wouldn’t betray Harry like that.

The pictures spread across the floor really were beautiful – even the one’s of him, of which Louis was surprised there were so many. And – the little  _shit_  – he’d caught snaps of Louis when he wasn’t even looking, when he hadn’t even realised Harry was taking a picture. Where was the fairness in that?

Louis was so grateful for this though, because it made him feel a little bit better about what had happened today. Even if Sam completely disrespected him –  _abused_  him, even – Harry didn’t. Not his Harry. Harry was kind and soft and beautiful in ways Louis had never known anyone to be.

Louis stripped off his clothes – not even bothering to change into pyjamas – and climbed into bed with Harry. He ran his hands over Harry’s broad shoulders, revelling in his smooth, warm skin, just taking comfort in the fact that Harry was here, and he was Louis’ safe haven, and he was just  _Harry_. There was something comfortable about Harry’s presence, something that made Louis feel safe in ways he never knew he needed to feel.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice cracked with exhaustion. He shifted until they were facing each other, legs intertwined, ankles locked together. Louis was too drunk and too sad and too fucking pissed off to care if Harry hated the physical contact – he  _needed_  it, craved it like a blind man craved the light. He needed Harry to hold him, to take care of him – just once. “You okay?”

Louis nodded, because he couldn’t trust himself to speak. He wasn’t sure his throat would sound the words anyway.

Regardless of his response, Harry could apparently see something in his eyes because he pulled him close, resting Louis’ head on Harry’s shoulder, and Louis finally let the tears leak from his closed eyes until he was sobbing uncontrollably, small guttural sounds falling from his ruined throat. His body wracked with the force of his crying, but Harry held him tight, not letting go – not for a moment.

And for the first time, Louis knew what it was like to have somebody there for him – because he was so used to being the one who had to be there for others; to being the one who’d offer reassurance, comfort, mend a broken heart.

But now Harry was here, smoothing a hand across Louis’ naked spine, not speaking – he didn’t want to ask Louis to explain something he wasn’t comfortable explaining – but that was okay, because he was there, holding Louis, murmuring soft, little nothings in his ear until Louis was so fucking tired he couldn’t even keep his eyes open, so he just planted a soft kiss on Harry’s shoulder in thanks – too tired to notice that Harry didn’t even clam up at the contact – and fell asleep, with tears still drying on his cheeks.

Harry didn’t let go of him all night.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Harry hoped Louis would still be asleep by the time he got back from buying them both breakfast. He’d left Louis’ sleeping form in bed, feeling as though his chest was imploding from how much it hurt to see the dried tear tracks on Louis’ face. Louis was strong – the strongest person Harry had ever known – and to see him weak and vulnerable felt like a blow to Harry’s gut.

Harry slipped into the room quietly, but he needn’t have bothered with the effort; Louis was awake, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor with his back to him, surrounded by Harry’s artwork. He’d draped a blanket over his shoulders, but he was dressed in nothing else – a towel wrapped around his waist. If it was anyone else, Harry would have been angry – angry at the invasion of privacy. But Louis looked so small, so quiet, shower water dripping from his hair over the bumps of his spine. He looked beautiful too, but in a tragic way. Harry kind of felt like he was staring at something that was broken. Either way, Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but sadness for the older boy – there was no resentment in him at seeing Louis curled in on himself, flicking through Harry’s pictures.

“Louis,” Harry murmured, adopting the same tone he’d use if he was approaching a wounded animal. Louis jumped, startled, but the photos didn’t leave his hands. “I brought breakfast.”

Louis nodded, still not speaking, and his eyes were wide with fading fear and panic – and  _Jesus_ , what had Harry done to deserve that look?

“I didn’t think you’d be awake,” Harry said quietly, dumping the carrier bag of food on the bed. “It’s early – cameras aren’t set to roll for another hour and a half.”

Louis shrugged and Harry sort of felt like all the air had left him. Why wasn’t he speaking?

“Are you...” Harry crouched beside Louis – and there were so many pictures over the floor that the only way Harry could fully join him was to sit behind him. He ghosted his fingers over Louis’ bare shoulder, over the hem of the blanket, and the older boy tensed, biting his lip and shaking his head violently. Harry hesitated, hurt and confused. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Louis stared at him – and Harry had never seen so much emotion ensnared within his blue eyes. There was so much pain and fear and anger and grief. Whatever had happened since the fashion show, it had completely wrecked Louis. Harry felt a surge of protectiveness shoot through him, and gently – so carefully – he let his fingers trace the tattoos on Louis’ right arm. Louis flinched but didn’t stop him, and Harry wondered what had happened to break Louis’ trust.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, knowing full well that he was  _not_  okay. “Lou?”

Louis tipped his head back and lifted a picture to Harry’s face.

If Harry wasn’t overcome by his concern and worry for his collab partner, he might have flushed. As it was, he simply stared at the picture. He’d bought it at the market yesterday – Hayden Kays’ work: a typewritten piece – ‘ _If I wasn’t straight I’d definitely be gay.’_

Harry shrugged. “Resonant,” he said simply, gently prying the picture from Louis’ hands. He placed it out of sight on his untouched bed. “Don’t change the subject.”

Louis smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Harry had never known beauty like this. There were beautiful things everywhere, he thought, but beauty was fickle – if it was broken or damaged or harmed, mostly it lost its charm. Not Louis. No, Harry thought Louis was beautiful even when he wasn’t – himself. When he wasn’t smiling, and there wasn’t that spark of unruly wit in his eyes. When he was defeated and dispirited, cracked and damaged, he was still just as beautiful as he was when Harry first bumped into him on the street. The thought made a lump rise in Harry’s throat.

Harry shoved some of the pictures away, not caring that they were all in the wrong order now and all his work yesterday had been for nothing. He swivelled himself around until he was facing Louis, the two of them sat cross-legged, facing each other.

“What happened, last night?” Harry asked softly, a pleading note to his voice. “Why’d you cry?”

Louis flinched, pushing Harry away. Despite him not speaking the words, Harry had an odd sense of knowing what he was saying:  _I don’t want to talk about it._

Harry sighed and fell back slightly, leaning on his hands. His fringe fell over his eyes and he blew it out of his face frustratedly, his bottom lip jutting out in a disgruntled pout. Louis’ lips twitched.

“Are you going to be silent all day?”

Louis seemed to think about that for a moment. Tentatively, he shrugged.

Harry rolled his eyes. “But what about the cameras? Your vlogging? It’s Wednesday – you said you had to put a new video up...”

Louis smiled, apparently glad that Harry had remembered such a small detail. He reached for his iPad, leaning over Harry’s work to retrieve it, and typed out a message. Wordlessly, he handed the device to Harry.

_Throat hurts. Speaking is painful._

“So...what? I’m supposed to fill in for all the things you can’t say?” Harry pressed the heels of his hands in his eyes, groaning. He knew there was more to Louis’ story – his throat didn’t just hurt out of nowhere! He was fine, yesterday. Maybe he’d consumed too much alcohol at the party? Harry had to admit he knew nothing about that sort of thing – whether it could even damage your throat the way Louis’ was. His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I just wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

Louis took the iPad.  _It was a shitty party. I’ll probably try using my voice sometime later on. Just give me time._

Harry met Louis’ blue gaze. “Time?” When Louis nodded, Harry sighed, running a hand through his wild hair. “Okay, time. But you’ll tell me what made you cry?”

Louis gritted his teeth and looked away, a muscle in his jaw clenching. Harry thought he saw a slight flush rise in Louis’ cheeks, but he couldn’t be sure in the dim lighting of dawn. Was Louis embarrassed to be caught upset?

Harry stood, feeling unable to truly vent his complete and utter frustration, and he walked over to his bed, pulling out the breakfast he’d bought. He tossed Louis a mini-box of his favourite cereal – Louis liked to eat it without milk – and he peeled his own banana, lost in thought.

Louis munched on the cereal in silence, and Harry thought he chewed each mouthful  _too_  long – and he swore Louis winced every time he swallowed. Harry had never felt so helpless.

Louis stood, clutching the towel round his waist, the light from the dawning morning filtering through the blinds, chasing the shadow of the room away. Harry’s eyes were drawn to Louis’ body, the way he crouched elegantly to look for some clothes in his duffel bag, the way his ribs showed whenever he reached for something, the way the muscles in his back flexed beneath the slipping blanket whenever he-

“Louis, is that a  _bruise_?”

Louis jumped as if Harry had shot him. He stumbled back slightly, away from Harry, eyes wide with panic and fear, clutching tightly at the blanket around his shoulders. He shook his head wildly, and if that wasn’t an indication that something was truly, horribly wrong, Harry didn’t know what was.

“Hey, hey,” Harry held his hands up amicably as he approached Louis, one careful step in front of the other. “I care about you,” he said honestly. “I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt you, Lou. Please just trust me.”

Louis seemed to tremble – honestly, how could someone so confident and loud and brash be this very same person? How could Louis go from being wild and carefree one night, to being withdrawn and  _terrified_  the next?

Harry placed his fingers on Louis’ forearm – a question. Louis didn’t flinch, but there was too much guardedness over his face, too much wariness. Harry’s fingers slid up his arm, over his inked skin, to rest at his shoulder beneath the blanket. Harry was concerned and anxious, yes, but even that couldn’t overshadow how his stomach flipped when he touched Louis, how his skin broke out in goosebumps when Louis’ warm breath fanned across Harry’s collarbone.

“Let me look,” Harry coaxed softly, ignoring his body’s reaction to Louis. “Let me take care of you, Lou.”

Louis hesitated for what felt like forever. But then he shifted, stepping forward – closer to Harry – and his head dipped forward so his chin was touching his chest. Harry chose not to mention the small welts that had formed at Louis’ hairline, though he was sickened by the sight of them. How could anyone inflict this pain on Louis? How could they bring themselves to hurt him?

Harry’s fingers rose over Louis’ shoulder, his other hand at his waist – turning him around. Carefully, he pulled the blanket away from Louis’ tension-filled body, letting it flutter to the floor around them. He rested his hand on Louis’ spine, sucking in a quivering breath to steady the racing of his heart. Just below the nape of Louis’ neck, at the very top of his spine, an angry bruise was forming, dark and purple. Harry traced it with a feather-light touch, tears forming in his eyes. How could somebody hurt someone so beautiful?

“Who did this to you?” Harry breathed, watching sadly as Louis trembled beneath his touch.

Louis shook his head and Harry turned him back so he could see Louis’ face. “Got in a fight,” Louis mouthed, shrugging – but the movement was too casual, and Harry knew instantly that it was a lie.

He touched Louis’ cheekbone, holding his breath. Louis seemed so still –  _too_  still – and Harry just wanted the life to spark back into him. His sadness for Louis was so profound he could barely breathe. He just wanted  _his_  Louis back – the fun one who’d sit and play Fifa with him, swearing profusely when he lost and mockingly beating Harry up. Harry wanted to share that with Louis again – that fondness, that constant need for contact.

“What can I do to make it better?” Harry shook his head, tears pooling in his eyes. “To make the pain go away?”

Louis reached up, pressing his thumb to the corner of Harry’s eyes. Harry blinked slowly, and Louis caught his falling tear, his lips pressed into a disapproving line. Harry was overcome momentarily by the warmth that exploded in his chest – consuming him – because this was Louis and Louis was touching him and Harry had craved his touch like this since he’d first met him. For the first time, his chaotic thoughts seemed to finally clear and there were no consequences, no second-guessing – this was just  _Louis_.

“I want to make it better,” Harry said, fingers running over the small bruises on Louis’ scalp. “How can I?”

Louis hesitated – and the two of them were just so caught up in each other, fingers brushing lightly at each other’s faces – lost in each other’s stares and they were just touching and exploring and holding and comforting until Louis’ lips formed the silent, broken words,  _“Kiss me.”_

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his body locking up. Louis didn’t flinch or move away, but he watched Harry carefully, no trace of remorse or regret in his expression. Harry could feel it burning in his stomach – that need, that  _need_  to kiss Louis. To taste him, just once. It didn’t have to mean anything; he just wanted to be everything Louis needed him to be – because someone had crushed his spirit and Harry wanted to awaken it again.

Harry’s hand slid under Louis’ jaw, carefully coaxing. And he was gentle – oh, so gentle – because he wanted to prove that there was gentleness in this world, that there was kindness. He wanted to prove that to Louis, who’d so clearly been subjected to violence and cruelty. Harry’s thumb brushed Louis’ cheekbone, testing, and he found himself pleasantly surprised when Louis leant in to the touch, nuzzling Harry’s hand with his eyes closed.

“You’re so beautiful, Lou,” Harry murmured, his voice quiet with appreciation. He was always tender with Louis – because beautiful things needed to be treated with care and consideration. Not beaten around until they were black and blue, damaged and rejected.

Louis’ eyes opened and his gaze was full of wistful longing – he didn’t think Harry would do it. Harry could see the doubt in his face, in the tiny crease beside his lips, in the downcast tilt to his head. “ _Please_ ,” Louis whispered, but no sound came out; just a crack where his throat protested the word, and Harry kind of wished he could hear Louis’ voice. “Gentle, Harry. I need gentle.”

Harry ran his thumb over Louis’ mouth, thoughtful. He was so soft, so supple beneath Harry’s touch, like all the tension just left his body whenever he came into contact with him. Harry liked that – but more, he wanted to feel that against his mouth.

He wet his lips nervously, hardly daring to breathe as he ducked his head to Louis’ height and brushed his mouth against his. It was barely a graze – just a bare acknowledgement of the kiss they both craved – but Louis whimpered anyway and his fingers clutched onto Harry’s shirt, keeping him close, and then they were kissing and – whoa, Harry had never kissed anyone like  _this_  before.

Louis’ other hand came to rest at the back of Harry’s neck, reaching up to pull him close. The added pressure parted Louis’ lips and Harry was quite sure he’d go dizzy from the taste of Louis’ mouth on his. He placed his own hand on Louis’, resting on Harry’s tummy, and the other was still framing his face, guiding him – always gently, always. Despite his tender movements, there was still something kind of rough in this kiss – something Harry had never experienced before; it could be the raw feverishness they felt, or the fact that Louis was a  _man_  and not a girl, but Harry craved it – needed more of it. Harry couldn’t help his whine of surrender and Louis swallowed the sound, murmuring softly, and then they were this heady mix of tongues exploring each other, heatedly sharing the air they breathed, hands roaming. It was full of tenderness, of knowing the other needed to be handled with care, and Harry's mind was going to explode with how overwhelmed he felt.

Vaguely, Harry thought this was much better than any of the imagining he’d done whilst wanking in the shower. Louis tasted  _exquisite_  – and he felt, kind of, heavy on Harry’s mouth – heavy and light at the same time; a mix of rough and tender, and there was no way Harry could’ve possibly imagined how good  _that_  would feel, how it was doing such amazing things to his body. There was no way he could have imagined how it felt to have Louis’ tongue running across his bottom teeth, how it would send pangs of longing into his stomach, increasing the pressure in his crotch. He could never have imagined what it felt like to swallow Louis’ wordless whimpers – quiet as they battled their way from his ruined throat.

“Sshh, Louis,” Harry murmured against his lips. “Your throat.”

“Don’t care,” Louis rasped, barely audible. “You’re so gentle, Harry. Feels so  _good_.”

And Harry was surprised by how much he  _wanted_  Louis to feel good. He wanted to make him feel better. He ran his tongue over Louis’ bottom lip, revelling in the tremble that ran through Louis body before he pulled back carefully – he didn’t want to get himself too worked up when Louis was... _not_  – and Louis looked at him with something like...gratitude?

“Thank you,” Louis mouthed, nuzzling his head in the crease between Harry’s shoulder and neck. Harry felt him press a simple, damp kiss to his collarbone and how could something so small and insignificant feel so good? Just a tiny wet peck and it held all the weight in Harry’s world. “I made you do that because it helped me but...I know you’re not gay...”

“It’s okay,” Harry said slowly; he wasn’t entirely sure where he stood now – with Harry and Louis and their friendship. “I wanted to.”

And it was true, though he almost hated to admit it. Harry wanted to kiss Louis – hell, he’d wanted to kiss Louis since they’d met – and it had been all new levels of good that Harry had never known existed. All the girls he’d kissed, all of them he’d touched like that, and he’d never felt anything close to what he felt when he touched Louis, when he tasted Louis’ mouth on his.

Harry’s grip on Louis tightened involuntarily and though it could have been awkward – Louis dressed in just a towel around his waist, with sopping wet hair – it wasn’t. It was all kinds of warm and gentle and affectionate and beautiful, because Harry cared about Louis, and the idea of anyone hurting him made him want to throw up and punch something at the same time, and he really  _wasn’t_  a violent person.

Ironically, he thought about the magazines that he’d picked up along with his breakfast. The one’s in the carrier bag on his bed, with papped pictures of Louis and Harry at the show last night on the front page, claiming boldly  **Harry Styles: “I’m not gay,” – but is he telling the truth?**  Perhaps they weren’t far off the mark after all.

_No,_ Harry thought.  _There’s a big difference between kissing a guy and having sex with him._

“I should get dressed,” Louis whispered, his voice cracking. “Cameramen will be here soon.”

Harry let go of him, refusing to acknowledge how his stomach dropped when he did so. He handed Louis the iPad from the floor. “Stop speaking,” he mumbled bashfully. “Save your voice.”

Louis smiled resignedly and –  _there it was_ : the spark that Harry had missed all morning. It was just a glimmer, just a shadow of the wild boy Harry had come to know, but it was there all the same. He wasn’t permanently gone after all. Harry almost sighed with relief.

While Louis typed out the day’s schedule, Harry cleared some of the mess he’d made on the floor, trying in vain to reorder some of his work. He took the iPad when Louis was done without looking at him; he wasn’t sure he wanted to see whatever emotion was on his face.

They were to go to a place of Harry’s choice to help him with his photography in the morning and in the afternoon they were going to be interviewing some of the stars of the new horror movie that was hitting theatres tomorrow. Harry had a meeting with Aspire Generations – without Louis – but aside from that, they had the evening off. No cameras. Harry tried not to think about that too much. Instead, he let his nerves show about the meeting.

“What do you think they’ll want from me?”

Louis shrugged, “Shouldn’t be bad,” he rattled, ignoring Harry’s glare because he was straining his voice. “Oh,  _shut up_.” He rolled his eyes, pushing lightly at Harry’s shoulder. “I have to speak at some point today – you said it yourself: I have a video to put up.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin at Louis’ small smile; perhaps Harry had helped Louis – he certainly seemed much happier. The thought was almost too much for him to consider. Could he really have that effect on Louis?

Louis disappeared into the bathroom then to get dressed and Harry sat back against the bed, fingers toying idly with his pictures. His head was swirling. He was so worried about Louis – wondering who could have possibly inflicted those injuries upon them. Harry tried desperately to quell the rising bile in his throat.

And then there was Louis – his mouth on his, and Harry really didn’t know what to think about that. It felt so  _good_ , so much so that he longed for more, but he was so confused by his body’s reaction to it. He wasn’t a teenager anymore; he’d long since passed that stage of awkwardness whereby he questioned his sexuality, like everyone else his own age. He was twenty-two, for Christ’s sake, and he’d spent all of those twenty-two years believing he’d prefer to be in a relationship with a girl – that he was straight. Why did he suddenly loathe the idea? Why did he suddenly crave Louis’ touch, taste, scent the same way he craved air?

Harry dropped his head in his hands, completely and utterly lost.

 

-*-

 

It was hard to act for the cameras, but even harder to act for Harry. 

Louis thought there was too much space between them, sat in the escalade on the way to London’s city centre. Realistically, Harry was only one seat across from him, but it felt like miles. He reached across and placed his hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry flushed and looked up, his green eyes searching. Louis didn’t think he’d ever seen anything that compared to the compassion in Harry’s eyes when they caught each other’s glances. It was otherworldly – no one cared about Louis as much as Harry did. No one except perhaps Louis’ mother.

It was dangerously addictive, feeling as though Harry worried over him. It made Louis feel safe and wanted and cared for. It was something Louis didn’t let himself feel often, but after last night...well, Louis would be no where without it.

“You alright?” Harry asked, his familiar, gravelly tone laced with concern. “How’s your throat?”

Louis winced, shrugging; he hated the reminder. He could still see it all clearly, as though he were reliving it – Sam’s leer, the pain in Louis’ scalp as he held him still, fucking viciously down his throat. The worst part was, Louis couldn’t do anything about it. He felt trapped, like it was his fault – he’d asked for it, after all. He’d initiated the thing with Sam – throwing off flirtatious remarks all year in his videos, ignoring Harry’s judgment when they met at the fashion show, going off to the party alone with Sam afterwards. He gave off all the signals of wanting Sam, and – Sam had given himself. Mercilessly.

Honestly, Louis just wanted to curl up and sleep until he felt better, until he could forget about it. He’d wished last night – whilst drifting off to sleep – through his tears that he’d forget it all, that the alcohol would take the memory away so he didn’t have to relive it again. But the alcohol only took the memories he craved – the light in Harry’s eyes when he’d watched the show, the way Harry’s hand had felt resting on his knee – and it left the ones he’d sooner escape from.

Harry shifted his weight casually and, though Louis was caught up in his own personal nightmare, he still couldn’t help but notice that Harry had moved himself into Louis’ touch, until his fingers were drumming in the crease of Harry’s thigh – millimetres from his crotch. And –  _fucking hell –_ Louis couldn’t think about Harry’s cock right now. It brought up feelings of longing and guilt that he couldn’t contend with at the moment.

Louis looked away, swallowing heavily as he tried to contain his own thoughts. Harry clearly liked Louis’ touch – he hadn’t stopped staring at Louis’ hand on his leg since they’d got in the car – and Louis wasn’t about to say he didn’t like touching Harry. Because he did. He really liked it.

He wasn’t stupid – he  _knew_  Harry was questioning his sexuality. And that was fine. Sure, it was slightly unusual for him to be questioning it so late – he was an  _adult_ , after all – but Louis was totally okay with Harry figuring himself out. Even if it meant denying the chemistry between them, the electric they felt whenever they so much as brushed each other, Louis was okay with it. It hurt that Harry wouldn’t admit his attraction to Louis, but what could Louis do? If he pushed Harry into it, he’d only rebound, and Louis would risk losing his friendship with him.

But still, if getting off in the shower to Louis’ name, buying expensive gay artwork, and actually  _fucking agreeing to kiss_  him were any indication, Harry was definitely not as straight as he claimed.

He just wished he could hurry the whole process up, so he could hold Harry the way he really wanted to without him freezing or tensing beneath his touch.

_I bet your fucking collab partner won’t touch you now, twink._ Sam’s words echoed in his mind and he blinked back tears, remembering the pain that had come with it.  _He won’t want to touch you if my cock’s been in your mouth._

The thought made Louis want to scream. What would Harry say if he knew the truth behind the bruises? Louis could barely stand to think of the look in his green eyes – that look of disappointment and regret. He wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Louis would rather take what Sam did to him sevenfold than lose his new friendship with Harry. He cherished it too much.

“Louis.” Harry’s voice cut through his hazy thoughts and he blinked, focusing on him. Harry glanced down at his leg pointedly – Louis’ fingers were clamped onto him like a vice, cutting into the material of his jeans. Bless him; how long had Louis been hurting him for?

He loosened his grip but he didn't move his hand. “Don’t want to let go,” he murmured, flushing deeply, and he tore his gaze away from Harry – too embarrassed to look into those eyes.

Harry’s fingers found his and they interlinked. Louis wanted to break down and sob at how comforting and reassuring it felt – having Harry here, squeeze his hand. “I never asked you to,” Harry muttered.

Neither of them looked at each other – Louis was too brash and proud to admit his feelings and Harry was too shy. It was an awkward checkmate, but when Louis caught Harry glancing at him in the wing mirror of the car, he grinned easily, and Harry gave a hesitant smile back.

No matter how shit he felt, Harry made Louis feel better.

 


	11. Chapter 11

When they pulled up outside the hotel – not  _their_  hotel but a different one – Harry had been shocked to see that there were actual, real-life fans waiting outside. 

“How famous did you say you were again?” Harry asked Louis, who just smiled happily – with that fond crinkle to his eyes that Harry was so desperate to capture with his camera. He refrained, though, simply for the reason that his anxiety overshadowed any appreciation he felt for beauty at the moment. “Louis, there are fans waiting here for you.”

“Not just mine – a lot of them are Eleanor’s,” Louis explained humbly – barely mouthing the words. “She’s doing the interviews with us.”

When the escalade finally lulled to a stop, Harry and Louis bailed out the car, flanked by a few members of security that Aspire had assigned to them. Thankfully, there were no paparazzi, and Harry used that thought to give him strength as he pulled his SLR camera strap over his neck, pulling out his trapped hair. He caught Louis watching him warmly, and he gave a self-conscious smile in return. The fans screamed when they saw Harry and much louder when they saw Louis, and Harry was suddenly overcome by a wave of panic. His throat closed and he could barely breathe.

“Louis,” Harry said shakily, and he seemed to know exactly what he was trying to say. He reached for Harry, placing his hand on his elbow, and Harry couldn’t be more grateful for his guidance. He could feel the weight of the fans’ gazes on them, could feel them scrutinising his every move. He hated it.

Since Louis could hardly be heard with his sore throat, he reached up and his lips brushed Harry’s ear as he whispered, “I’ve seen some stuff on Twitter about us – some fans wanting us to be linked... _romantically_. They might mention it. Don’t...don’t say anything you’ll regret, okay?”

Harry flushed at the thought of him and Louis being in a relationship – but he was terrified that the fans would see the truth. And what exactly  _was_  that? That Harry had kissed Louis?  _It doesn’t mean anything,_  he told himself. They weren’t dating. And the fans couldn’t possibly know it happened, anyway; he was just panicking. He blinked, suddenly dazed, but Louis still didn’t move. Harry could feel goosebumps forming on his neck from the heat of Louis’ breath brushing the underside of his ear and it took all of his willpower not to lean into him, to feel his lips brush accidentally against his earlobe. He  _wanted_  the contact but he refrained from seeking it, staying very still as Louis reached up to whisper again.

“If you panic, let me know and I’ll get you out of here, Harry.” Louis’ hand tightened on his elbow – Harry was so aware of Louis’ every touch. “I promise you won’t get hurt.”

Harry nodded briskly, appeased by Louis’ presence. “You’ll keep me safe,” he murmured softly. The screaming of the fans was much louder now, the security ushering them closer and closer. Harry could feel a lump in his throat – he felt a little trapped.

“ _Louis!”_  They chanted, a shrill pitch to their desperate cries. Louis approached them and Harry was suddenly captivated by Louis’ ability to handle the attention. Sure, he lived with it, worked for it,  _needed_  it to keep his career – but Harry was so surprised by how he actually handled attention when he was faced with it. The fans – there must be at least a hundred – seemed to swarm around Louis, and he took it good-naturedly, no sign of anxiety in his gaze. There was something so beautiful about the excited spark to his eyes, about the wide beam stretching his lips, about the way he threw his head back and laughed when a fan told him something funny.

He signed various pictures and he took photos and he answered questions. Harry stayed away, too wary to approach the crowd, but he stayed within an arm’s reach of Louis – he couldn’t drift too far from him. When Louis spotted the young eight-year-old fan at the edge of the crowd, the affection in his gaze was so strong that Harry had lifted his Polaroid without really thinking. The snap of the camera seemed to draw attention to him because a fan shouted, “Larry Stylinson!” and Louis and Harry shared a look of perplexed amusement which seemed to make the crowd of girls go wilder, screaming and shouting until Harry sort of resembled a scared puppy, quivering with anxiety and edging away from the crowd.

“Hey,” Louis’ focus drifted from the fans for a moment as he zoned in on Harry, arm outstretched to touch his wrist. “They just want to take some pictures with us – are you okay with that?”

Harry nodded because the hope in Louis’ gaze was too strong to decline. Fans took selfies with them, and Harry kind of felt like he was an outsider looking in, despite being wholly involved, because he shouldn’t be on the forefront of the lens. It wasn’t where he  _belonged_.

He was even more alienated when a fan actually refused a selfie, and preferred to take a picture of  _them_  instead.

“Please? Louis can you pose with Harry? I just want you two without others. Please?” The fan asked, and Harry thought she looked at Louis like he was his whole world.  _Same_ , he thought ironically.  _He’s_ too _beautiful for this world._

Harry hesitated when Louis turned to him questioningly and then he nodded, putting his Polaroid back in his jacket pocket and trying not to over-react when Louis placed his arm around his waist. He could feel his fingers drumming against Harry’s hipbone through the material of his shirt and it completely overwhelmed his mind until he could think of nothing else. Harry faced the girl’s camera – knowing full well that the angle was all wrong and that, judging by how much she’d zoomed in, the picture was going to be totally distorted. But it made her happy, and Harry liked happy people.

The fans seemed to totally melt when Louis and Harry took a picture together. Louis’ hand squeezed Harry’s side affectionately, and he lifted his lips to Harry’s ear again. “You feeling alright?”

Harry pressed his lips in a thin line.

“You two are the cutest!” A girl shouted, but Louis didn’t react. He kept his eyes on Harry, and Harry kept his eyes on the floor.

“Don’t crowd them – we all know how shy Harry is!”

“Guys, they won’t come out for pictures again if you mob them!”

“Harry, we all know you and Louis are together; you should come out of the closet officially!”

Harry tensed, looked at Louis, and shook his head – the unspoken answer to Louis’ question.

Louis grimaced, his voice quiet by his damaged throat. “Okay – last picture, guys. Harry’s not used to this sort of thing. He’s freaking out a bit."

Louis had to repeat himself a few times to be heard, since he couldn’t exactly shout, and when he did, the fans gave a unanimous groan. Harry flushed, feeling guilty but also way too sick to change his mind. He was so terrified, he could feel the bile rising in his throat and he turned away slightly as Louis signed a few more things and took a final selfie with a fan. As their handlers pulled them out of the crowd, Louis reached out, gripping onto Harry’s elbow, guiding him towards the hotel entrance, the security preventing them from being followed by the crowd.

As soon as they passed the entrance, Harry’s knees gave out.

“Whoa,” Louis caught him, letting him rest against the wall for support. His voice was so scratchy, like nails dragged down a chalkboard, and through his fear, Harry still felt a considerable measure of concern for him. “You okay there?”

Harry’s breathing was laboured, and he rested the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes, the room swimming around him too dizzily to keep them open. “That was mad,” Harry gasped. “How do you do that all the time?”

Louis touched his face reassuringly, brushing his thumb over Harry’s cheek. They could still hear the screaming of the fans outside, but he was safe now, Harry thought. Safe with Louis.

“It’s not like this all the time,” Louis said carefully. “In fact, this is abnormal. It’s because it’s Arts’ Week – everything’s so high-profile and I’ve been posting a video every day of what we’ve spent our time doing...celebrities are involved, the paparazzi are catching it and...I have a lot of subscribers.” Louis shrugged helplessly. “Aspire knew it’d be hectic – because it’s so well-covered by the media – so they assigned us the security but...”

“You were so calm out there,” Harry commented, his breathing made easier by the sound of Louis’ quiet and raspy voice.

Louis smiled softly and poked Harry in the stomach playfully. Harry tried to ignore the resonant pang in his gut at the contact. “I’m good with people.”

_And you’re not._  Harry heard it, unspoken, but he couldn’t find enough energy within him to be offended. It was true: he  _wasn’t_  good with people. “They think I’m gay, Louis,” Harry said sadly, running a hand through his hair. He looked up and met Louis’ gaze, hearing him suck in a sharp breath. “They think we’re together.”

“Everyone thinks that,” Louis said quietly – his hand dropped to his side. Harry suddenly craved his touch again, hating the way Louis just shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet. “We knew this would happen.”

“Do you think it’ll die down?” Harry asked. “The rumours? When Arts’ Week is over and they don’t see us together in public anymore and we don’t talk as much...” he trailed off, surprised by the pain in Louis’ stormy eyes. What had he said to hurt him?

“I was kind of hoping we’d still be friends afterwards,” Louis muttered, half-angry. “That I was more than just a business partner for you.”

Harry's eyes widened.  _Oh_. “I didn’t think you’d want to bother...” Harry dropped his gaze. “We’re not likely friends – like, we’re so different. I thought  _I_  was just a business partner to  _you_.”

Louis touched Harry’s shoulder, clearing his throat with a wince. His fingers grazed the low collar of Harry’s shirt, brushing across the swallows inked on his skin. “You’re a fucking shit, Harry,” he breathed, and then he hugged him.

Harry had never held Louis like this before – both coherent and alert. For a moment, he froze, before his arms wrapped around Louis’ shoulders, and Louis sighed, burying his face into Harry’s neck. Harry hesitated – but he really wanted to be  _closer_  – so he pressed his mouth to Louis’ hair in a half-kiss, inhaling his scent. He smelled familiar and reassuring and just of  _Louis_. Harry didn’t think he’d ever get enough of it.

 

-*-

 

Louis sat with Eleanor on the sofa, head in his hands. He stared at his phone, resting on his knees. It was open on YouTube – on Sam Oakwood’s channel – and he’d just posted his new video about Arts’ Week. Louis felt sick looking at Sam’s face on the thumbnail. He could remember the sickening malevolence twisting his very same features last night, when he’d brutally forced himself down Louis’ throat.

“You have to tell someone,” Eleanor coaxed gently, rubbing a hand over his back. “Louis, come on.”

“I’m not going to the police,” Louis said firmly. “Can you imagine the damage that would do to my reputation? It’d ruin my career! I can’t put that sort of content on my channel – I can’t let my viewers know what happened. I’d lose subscribers, lose respect, lose the name I’ve built up for myself. I can’t exactly openly accuse Sam; it was  _my_  fault-”

“Don’t you dare say it was your fault, Louis Tomlinson,” Eleanor hissed, anger flaring in her eyes. “What he did was  _wrong_. You wanted a bit of fun, yes, but he should have stopped when you asked him to."

“I  _didn’t_  ask him to,” Louis said miserably. “I couldn’t bring myself to piss him off further. I just took it, El, and my throat fucking  _hurts_...” Louis broke off, a sob threatening to burst from his lips. He swallowed it painfully, refusing to demean himself.

There were many traits Eleanor held that weren’t admirable – she was a party-goer, like him, and she slept with more guys than she probably remembered. She was also fairly indecisive, sometimes blunt and also had the capacity within her to be a real fucking bitch. But there were some qualities in Eleanor that Louis liked – she was trustworthy, for a start, and level-headed. She could be compassionate when she wanted to be, too. Also, she was very bloody observant.

The moment he’d opened his mouth to greet her – while Harry was downstairs getting drinks – she’d known something was wrong. Being the get-around she was, she’d instantly put his sore throat together with the magazine article – currently lying open on the bed – detailing Louis’ night out with Sam and figured out the truth. She’d opened her arms to him, and he’d broken down – because with Harry around he hadn’t allowed himself to do it.

“You should have bitten his dick off,” Eleanor growled vehemently and Louis winced. “Fucking asshole deserves it. I’m glad I didn’t subscribe to him and fall for his shit – not that you’re an idiot for doing so, but, well...you are.”

“ _Thanks_ , El,” Louis’ voice was bitter. “You’re really helpful. Super.”

She rubbed his back affectionately, grinning despite herself. But then her smile turned to a pout and her eyes turned serious and Louis knew he was going to hate her next words. “You should tell Harry.”

Louis was already shaking his head, thoughts resting on the boy. He was still downstairs with Eleanor’s partner Chloe, getting them all drinks before the interviewing started up. “I can’t.”

“But he cares about you so much – anyone can see it,” she protested, her voice taking on a hard edge. “And he was there for you when you needed someone. He bloody  _kissed_   _you_  because you asked him to. Look me in the eye and tell me he doesn’t deserve to know the truth.”

Louis kept his gaze fixed on his lap. “He’ll hate me.”

“Bullshit.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “He’ll hate that I put myself forward. I was a fucking whore, Eleanor,” Louis mumbled. “I deserve what I got, and I definitely  _don’t_  deserve him.”

She kept her face blank. “Bull _shit,”_ she repeated. “No one deserves to have their throat torn apart by some wanker’s cock – willing or unwilling, he went too rough. Anyone would say that if they heard your shitty voice.”

“My fault,” he muttered and she grabbed his chin, turning him to face her briskly. Honestly, it kind of hurt, but the pain was what he needed to see clearly again.

“It’s  _not_ ,” she said loudly, voice coloured with annoyance. “If you don’t tell him, I will.”

Louis felt the blood drain from his face. “I can’t – Eleanor, he means so much to me; I can’t lose him over a shitty, drunken mistake.”

“You think he  _won’t_  know it was a shitty, drunken mistake-” She cut off, eyes widening with realisation. “Are you in love with him?”

Louis flushed and clenched his hands into fists. “He’s straight.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He remembered Harry kissing him, the way he’d held Louis’ face so gently, fingers intertwined with his as he clutched onto Harry, begging for more, desperate for them to stay like that for all of eternity. Because there was nothing that ever compared to what it felt like to kiss Harry – nothing Louis had ever done could beat it. It had seemed so foreign but in the best way. Louis was so used to roughness, to fighting for dominance – and kissing Harry wasn’t like that. He was gentle and peaceful and tender and kind and Louis thought if he went a single day without his fix of Harry it’d be a shit day. Funny, he thought, that one person could have such an impact on another, even after only knowing them for three days. But Louis couldn’t forget Harry, now. No matter how hard he tried.

“I didn’t ask about him, I asked about  _you_.” She tapped her long, varnished fingernails against his knee – a habit Louis had gotten used to when it came to her. “Because you, Louis Tomlinson, are definitely  _not_  straight.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Louis said flatly.

Eleanor didn’t miss a beat. “Do you want to fuck him?”

Louis almost choked. “What?”

Eleanor sat back, rolling her eyes. “Of course you do; don’t try to pretend – I can see it in your look. You’re all love-sick and puppy-dog eyes – you  _want_  him.”

Louis tried to keep the disgust from his tone.  _Puppy-dog eyes_...Who did she think he was? “I don’t-”

“Fifty quid says you’ve wanked over him in the last twenty-four hours.”

Louis tried very much not to look guilty. When Eleanor raised her eyebrows, his shoulders sagged. “I can’t help it-”

“The wanking? I’m sure you can.”

" _No_ ," he glared at her until she shrugged innocently. He ducked his head, staring at his hands, wrung in his lap. “There’s something about him. He just...he views the world differently, right? He judges everything by its measure of beauty and he’s so naive to believe that beauty equates good. He’s so bloody innocent and I’m torn between wanting to hold him close for the rest of my days and wanting to fucking destroy him.”

Eleanor snorted – and she was the only female he’d ever known to actually make that look graceful. “Wow, okay.”

Louis carried on, despite his throat feeling like it was going to burn up any minute. “That’s exactly why I don’t want to tell him. He tells me I’m beautiful, El. What am I supposed to do with that? Tell him I sucked off this other guy and he fucking beat the shit out of me whilst I did it? What’s he going to think of me then? Because  _that’s_  not beautiful.”

Eleanor sighed, squeezing his knee. “You tell him or I will.”

She got up off the bed and left the room, no doubt seeing what was taking Harry and Chloe so long. Louis sat there, phone still showing Sam’s page, and tried to swallow down his chaotic sobs. Now was not a time to break down and cry – he had interviews to conduct in ten minutes.

He was scared. So scared. If he told Harry what had happened at the party, it made it true. It meant it wasn’t just a figment of Louis’ imagination, or something he was overreacting to. If he told Harry, it meant the pain was real.

With shaky fingers, Louis unsubscribed from Sam on YouTube and then switched to Twitter to unfollow. When the blue button switched back to white, Louis felt just a little bit better. Trembling violently, Louis managed to tweet:  _Your content is something I’m not interested in anymore._ It was an indirect, yes, but Louis wasn’t brave enough to confront him – online or in real life. He was well known for his brash and confident nature, but right now Louis had never felt so vulnerable.

Besides, it was one step closer to telling Harry the truth. Because if Harry deserved honesty, then Louis thought he might as well start where the home was.

 

-*-

 

 

Louis was somehow able to momentarily forget about his worries for the rest of the day. Harry took up a lot of his time, distracting Louis to the extent of which he’d forget his questions or drop his prompt cards and – the little  _shit_  – he didn’t even realise he was doing it, judging by the confused frown on his face. 

It wasn’t  _his_  fault, Louis supposed. He didn’t know what Louis thought when he looked at him. He didn’t know that Louis imagined kissing those damp lips – currently formed into a thoughtful pout – until they were swollen and numb. Or that Louis thought about intertwining his grip in Harry’s long fingers, clutching onto him as Harry fucked up into Louis, keening softly. He could just imagine that look in Harry’s eyes – the one that said Louis was his entire world, all he focused on, all he saw. Louis craved that look almost as much as he craved his touch.

This inappropriate wandering of his thoughts was the cause of his uncomfortable hard-on.

He tried to relieve the discomfort during the interviews – subtly, of course – by shifting his jeans so his crotch didn’t feel so tight in the material but, after the fourth time of doing this, Eleanor had glared at him meaningfully and Louis had stopped.

That didn’t mean it went away. Because Harry was still being a tease, sitting on the edge of the seat and rocking over it absent-mindedly. Louis thought he was probably bored, but it made Louis think of dirtier thoughts – of Harry rocking over his cock, saliva-slicked lips parted in a moan.

There was one part of the interview where Harry tucked his hand under his shirt to scratch his stomach, and the flash of inked skin from the material rising up had Louis wondering what it would feel like to undress Harry, to pay his body the attention he deserved.

Louis almost lost himself when Harry took a break to eat a banana. A fucking banana. Louis had always thought innocently of the fruit, but when Harry took in his mouth, his lips stretching around it, Louis thought innocence was far from his mind. It was just that Harry didn’t eat it normally – or this was Louis’ filthy imagination – but he had a habit of flicking his tongue out first, just before his bite, and in that split second, Louis’ mind would drift over thoughts of Harry’s tongue tracing Louis’ cock – just over the slit on his head – licking at the bead of pre-come that would accumulate there.

Louis was pretty sure he felt a wet patch on the front of his boxers. He hoped it wouldn’t spread through to his jeans, but if Eleanor’s knowing glances were anything to go by, she already knew what he was thinking about. It was a wonder Louis didn’t embarrass himself all afternoon – because his erection just wouldn’t go away.

It came as a relief when Harry went off to his meeting that evening and Louis was left alone in the hotel room. For a while, he didn’t do anything – he just sat, shirtless, on his bed and continued his game on Fifa, humming to distract himself from his twitching cock, and the tempting silence that welcomed it.

Ten minutes later, he could barely think through his haze of lust. His mind was playing on repeat:  _Harry, Harry, Harry_  – and Louis had placed the controller aside before he could even think about what he was doing.

He pulled his cock free of his jeans, gasping with relief as he did so. He could feel the blood throbbing to it, filling it, hardening it, and it curled up to his stomach, the tip damp already from pre-come. He wanted to relieve himself, but the thought of wanking off to Harry twice in the last twenty-four hours was guilt-invoking if anything, least because the boy was so innocent and shy; Louis kind of felt guilty thinking dirtily of him anyway.

He wrapped his hand around his cock firmly, hissing with the pleasure of it. He couldn’t not do this – it would fucking  _hurt_  to leave his cock this hard now. So he allowed himself to think of Harry again, to imagine what it would feel like to have his lips on his – warm and wet and soft. Harry was a soft person, and he’d run his hands over Louis so gently, touching his face and chest and stomach before resting at his thighs. The thought of Harry between Louis’ legs was almost enough to finish him off, even as he tugged on himself slowly and languidly – Harry wasn’t due back for another twenty minutes at least, and Louis aimed to be in the shower by then. Louis imagined Harry’s long fingers caressing the inside of his thighs, resting at the creases beside his cock – oh,  _fuck_ , if Harry touched his cock-

“Oh,  _God_ ,” a voice sounded. “I’m- err- sorry, I’ll just...uh...go –  _Jesus_ , Louis.”

Louis froze and looked up, a feeling of dread passing over him. Panicked jade eyes met his and Louis swallowed uncertainly. Harry was stood in the doorway, watching him.

 


	12. Chapter 12

_“Harry!”_

Harry swallowed, unable to take his eyes off Louis. He was sat on his bed, sheets hunched up around his waist frantically, his hair tousled in every direction. Perhaps it was the flush to his cheeks, or the barely noticeable sheen of sweat on his forehead, or the blown out pupils in his blue eyes, but Harry just couldn’t stop  _staring_.

“I thought your meeting didn’t end till eight,” Louis broke the awkward silence, eyes flicking nervously to the open doorway.

_He was wanking,_ Harry thought despairingly.  _He was getting off and you interrupted him, you idiot._

Harry took a step back – he needed to put space between him and Louis before he did something he’d regret. “Um, it finished early...” He forced himself to squeeze his eyes shut, but he could still see the image ingrained behind his eyelids. Louis – looking so shifty and needy that Harry couldn’t help the pang of wild desire that seemed to pulsate in his veins; restless thoughts flashed through his mind and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to stride over there, peel the sheets back from Louis, and just  _enjoy_  him. It was what Harry wanted – badly – but it wasn’t.

“I’ll just – um – you can finish off,” he gestured his thumb over his shoulder, shrugging helplessly. His face was on fire, embarrassment and confusion warring within him so strong he felt like he was suffering from whiplash. “I’ll go – call me when you’re done.”  _What a stupid thing to say,_ he thought, and the blush deepened. “Um, yeah.”

“Stay,” Louis said suddenly, his voice cracking with his sore throat, and Harry froze, half-way out the door. He could feel the weight of Louis’ stare on his back, and he slowly turned around, swallowing heavily. He kept his head down for the moment, unable to bring himself to meet Louis’ eyes.

“Why?” His voice didn’t sound very loud, which was ironic, considering how loud his head was screaming at him to keep walking, to leave Louis to his own business and to try and forget this ever happened.

Louis met his gaze, blue eyes meeting green, fused by heat and lust that seemed to crackle between them. It went unspoken – tension building – until Louis said, “Come here,” and then tacked on, “please.”

Harry shifted his weight uncertainly. He wanted to – oh God, he wanted to – but...wasn’t this a bit  _weird?_  They were roommates, friends even. This wasn’t a normal thing for friends to do.

The thought didn’t stop him from taking hesitant steps forward. He shut the door carefully behind him, thinking Louis definitely wouldn’t want strangers to see him as they passed by their room. It  _definitely_  had nothing to do with Harry’s desire to keep the two of them secluded from the rest of the world – like a secret. Harry’s secret. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Louis was sucking on his lower lip absent-mindedly and when Harry caught his tongue dart out to wet it, his cock twitched in his jeans. He kept a safe distance from Louis, perching on the very edge of his own unused bed. Every muscle in his body felt coiled to the point of pain almost, and he was ready to run at any moment.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis’ hand shifted beneath the sheets, Harry’s name falling from his lips in something like a moan.

“Were you-” Harry cut himself off, looking away. He didn’t know what to say – this was so  _awkward_. “Um...”

“What?” Louis asked softly. “Was I what?”

Maybe it was the softness in Louis’ voice, or the sound of the sheets shifting as he moved, but Harry looked back, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. Louis whimpered when their gazes met – and if that didn’t confirm Harry’s suspicions, then the slow shift of Louis’ hand under the sheets certainly did. “Are you, like, getting off – to me?”

Now it was Louis’ turn to blush. “Harry – you have to understand – I...in the interviews today, you were being – you’re such a  _fucking_  tease – and like-”

“I do.”

Louis stopped, confused. “Huh?”

Harry didn’t mean for the words to slip out; the filter between his thoughts and his mouth was usually fragile, but now it was practically non-existent – he suspected it had something to do with how much his cock was hurting, throbbing in his pants because –  _Jesus Christ_  – the thought of Louis waiting  _all day_  for the small window of time where Harry would be out of the room, just so Louis could wank over him – it was too much to comprehend.

Instead of addressing that, however, Harry just shrugged. “I do understand,” he mumbled. “I...um...I did it over you – in the shower..."

“I heard you.”

Harry looked up, shock and embarrassment temporarily freezing him. “I thought you did,” he whined, mortified. “And when you did that – thing, like...you  _licked my come_ , Louis.”

Louis gave a small groan, his hand shifting beneath the sheet once again. “ _Harry_ ,” he hissed. “Too worked up to think about  _that_.”

Harry eyed the sheet with something like distaste. “You don’t have to hide under there, you know.”

Louis arched his eyebrow. Harry felt like he had to explain; his comment already sounded crude enough though, and Harry was so self-conscious, and terrified of screwing this up – because he  _wanted_  Louis to come, moaning out Harry’s name. It was...the thought of that was driving Harry wild. He shifted his position on his bed – still watching Louis from across the room – and tried to subtly palm himself through his jeans. It relieved some of the pressure, making Harry jerk out. Judging by Louis’ smirk, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Like – we both know you’re....uh, going at it under there.” Harry stumbled over his words. It wasn’t just his words, but his thoughts too. Why was he struggling to be coherent? “It’s got to be hot under there-”

Louis glanced down at the sheets and then back up to Harry, a small crease between his eyebrows. “I have  _some_  measure of dignity, Harry – even if it’s mostly gone.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I won’t look – I’ll leave, if you want.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Louis said pointedly. “That’s not going to help me.”

Harry coughed.  _Oh_. Still, Harry didn’t want Louis to be uncomfortable – masturbating was supposed to be great, right? – and based on the sheen of sweat on Louis’ body, he was definitely too hot beneath that sheet.

“I just want it to be good for you,” Harry muttered, glaring at the tattoo on his hand. Louis made a noise – something close to frustration – but Harry didn’t dare look up. Louis was...well, he was  _Louis_...and there was only so much embarrassment Harry could put himself through before he couldn’t take it anymore.

There was no trace of amusement in Louis’ voice when he spoke though. “I’m not moving this sheet. It’s hot – I’m sweating, yeah – but I’m not moving it.”

Harry looked up, catching onto the unspoken hint of  _something else_  in his words. What was Louis suggesting? There was something like a teasing smirk on Louis’ face, but his stormy eyes spoke of hesitance and uncertainty...and desperation –  _he wanted to come._  But Harry was on the forefront of his mind, he could see it in the way Louis looked at him. The thought gave Harry a pleasurable shiver.

“You can move the sheet for me, if you want,” Louis continued naturally, dropping his gaze. There was something strained in the nonchalance of his voice, though, something that told of the edgy provocation he was feeling. Harry could just make out the shift of his hand beneath it and – whoa, Louis was actually getting off to this. He couldn’t even think past that thought. “But only if you want, Harry.”

Harry hesitated. His blood sang within his veins, his heart pumping rapidly in his chest. He wanted this and he was scared because he wanted this, and he didn’t realise how much Louis' friendship meant to him until now – until Harry was dangerously close to ruining it.

But Harry could still hear Louis’ voice in his head from earlier; it had played on repeat in his mind all day.  _Kiss me._  Harry had caught himself staring at Louis’ mouth throughout the day, desperately seeking an excuse to be closer, to touch him – even just a brush of his hand against his. It was everything to Harry, and Louis’ suggestion had caught in his mind until his thoughts were nothing but  _‘Louis, Louis, Louis’_ , a needy chant that he couldn’t silence.

Harry didn’t realise he’d gotten up until he heard Louis suck in a sharp breath. As Harry approached the bed, Louis’ eyes never left his, until the two of them were just staring at each other – Harry towering over Louis’ flushed, naked form. Harry was consciously aware that just a sheet separated them – a sheet that he intended to move.

The need to move it was strong, but the need to taste Louis again was stronger. He leaned over, sliding his trembling fingers beneath Louis’ jaw, and he lifted his face to kiss him.

Louis gave a desperate moan and Harry swallowed the sound, teeth grazing Louis’ bottom lip lightly before he deepened the kiss. Harry’d thought about this all day – the taste of Louis’ lips, the warmth of his breath as they inhaled the air the other breathed. He’d thought about it all day but still, it was better now – actually doing it. If that was even possible. Kissing Louis was  _heavenly_. Louis reached up to tangle his fingers in Harry’s curls at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer with a needy whine.

“Harry,” Louis whimpered against his mouth, and Harry felt a surge of confidence at the sound – a surge of  _‘I can do this, I want it and he wants it and there’s nothing stopping us.’_   He rolled Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth until Louis’ mouth parted, and Harry gripped his shoulder for balance as he flicked his tongue against Louis’.

“Fucking hell,” Louis growled as they broke apart, gasping for breath. “Don’t stop, Haz, please – only if you don’t want to, of course.”

Harry didn’t want to – he didn’t want to stop kissing Louis all night; he needed to share this moment with him. But Louis had  _needs_  and Harry could practically taste the stuttered, punctured breaths that left Louis’ lips as his frustration amounted. Harry rested his knee on the bed, still overcome with this foreign confidence, and his fingers edged down Louis’ arm – over his inked skin – across his chest, to rest at the hem of the sheet around Louis’ hips.

They broke apart, gasping, desperation rising.

A small part of Harry was conflicted – he  _wasn’t_  gay, despite his protesting cock – but that was overwhelmed by the warmth in Harry’s chest, the rapid beat to his heart, the sound of Louis’ name falling unthinkingly from his lips. Because –  _God_  – Louis was so freaking beautiful, sitting there beneath Harry’s looming weight, flushed and sweaty and gasping for breath, eyes wide as he stared at Harry like he was Louis’ whole world. It was a heady thought. Harry wanted to see all of him, to appreciate his whole body in all its beauty and suddenly, it didn’t matter what his head said. For that moment, Harry wanted to follow his heart.

“Don’t do it if you’re not comfortable,” Louis said carefully. “I never want to make you or anyone uncomfortable.  _Never_. Don’t do it unless you want to.”

Harry was terrified that Louis’ words were going to drown out the longing in his heart. He shoved playfully at Louis’ shoulder, swallowing when he saw the sheet slip lower on his perfectly defined hips. “Shut up and kiss me, you fool.”

Louis grinned, eyes bright with utter delightedness, and if Harry could pick any moment in his life – any beautiful moment that he hadn’t captured on his Polaroid – he would pick this. Because that spark – the spark of complete rapture – in Louis eyes was all Harry needed. When Louis lunged to kiss him, Harry pulled the sheet down.

“ _Shit_ , _”_  Louis hissed but Harry didn’t let him pull away. He kissed him passionately, but gently – he almost felt like he’d disturb Louis’ beauty if he was too forceful – despite the fact that his whole body was almost burning with need for Louis to touch him. Harry’s hands moved from Louis’ face, travelling down Louis’ shoulders. He ran his hands over Louis’ tattoos, then over his chest, and he hesitated, the confidence leaving him suddenly.

Louis’ cock lay flush upon his abdomen, thick and pink, and the tip was slick with pre-come. Harry had never seen anyone else’s dick in real-life before. He thought he’d be disgusted by it or turned off, but Harry found himself enraptured by it, and his fascination only had him feeling more confused, more apprehensive.

“Haz,” Louis muttered, hand reaching up to trace Harry’s cheekbone. Harry met his gaze – soft and forgiving and tender. “You don’t have to do this – I get that...the first time seeing- the first time is hard, okay? You can say no if you don’t want this.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“But please, for the love of all that’s fucking holy, stop biting your lip,” Louis moaned and Harry only clamped down on his bottom lip more, firm until he could feel it swell flush against his teeth. Louis let out a reluctant whimper, and Harry swore he saw his cock twitch. Harry just looked at Louis, trying to ignore how bloody hard he was from seeing Louis like this – bare and naked and beautiful, all for Harry. He still couldn’t understand how Louis was like this for him. Like, he felt like he didn’t deserve Louis’ appreciation, because Louis was treating him the way Harry treated beautiful things: like they were treasured and cherished and precious. Harry’s chest was starting to hurt.

“Can you...can you help?” He asked tentatively, tracing a small circle on the inside of Louis’ wrist – the one he was using to touch Harry’s face. “I want to but, like, I’m nervous.”

Louis smiled understandingly, the crinkles by his eyes showing as he took Harry’s hand and guided it down. “I’m already close as it is,” he mumbled, watching as Harry curled his fingers around Louis’ length. He let out a long breath, waiting for Harry to shift his hand over his cock. “ _Please_ , Harry.” It was a plea and Harry obliged.

He moved his hand, letting out a whimper of his own when Louis tilted his head back, lips parted with bliss. Harry leaned forward, encouraged by Louis’ reaction, and captured Louis’ mouth in his own, letting his tongue trace Louis’ upper lip. It was a wet kiss, but Harry liked that; it made him feel like Louis was his – in the best way. Louis was gasping into his mouth, and Harry picked up his pace, pumping Louis’ cock the way he knew Louis wanted – hard and fast. Louis was making noises half-way between a groan and a whimper, and Harry slowed down, slicking his thumb over the oozing slit of Louis’ cock’s tip, spreading the bubble of pre-come that had accumulated there.

“Shit, Harry-” Louis watched, gaze flicking between Harry’s eyes and his hand around Louis’ cock. He tilted his hips up, supporting his weight on his hands, and tried to fuck into Harry’s hand – frustrated by the slow pace – but Harry pressed his hand down on Louis’ clammy thigh, stopping him with a scolding, hard look. Louis’ eyes widened with surprise, but he didn’t try it again.

“You’re gonna need something to come into,” Harry murmured thoughtfully. “I want to sleep in this bed tonight and I can’t do that if the sheets are filthy.”

Louis gave a stuttered laugh, partly frustrated, partly amused. Harry ignored it and he stripped his jacket off before pulling his shirt over his head, letting it mess up his wild hair. Louis seemed to stop breathing for a moment, before he reached forward and touched Harry, hands tracing over the planes of Harry’s chest. Harry let him touch – needed it almost – and he picked up the pace again, tossing Louis’s dick off with renewed determination. They didn’t kiss; Louis was much too wrapped up in Harry’s body and vice versa for them to worry about that, but Harry didn’t mind. He rather liked hearing Louis’ quiet, short moans, hearing his own name on Louis’ silky – if a little damaged – voice.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Louis breathed shakily. “I’m so close.”

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat and his grip tightened. Louis squirmed and Harry met his eyes. “You want to come?”

Louis’ fingers dug into Harry’s shoulders, raking the skin raw. Harry didn’t mind the pain – rather liked it in fact. “Fuck yes.”

Harry dipped forward and placed a small kiss on Louis’ collar. “Okay,” he said simply, his tone low with need. “Okay, you can come.”

Louis did just that, hips rising to meet Harry’s hand as he groaned, eyes closing. Harry reached for his face with his free hand, tracing over the sharp lines of Louis’ cheekbones, quietly memorising the lines of his face. He concentrated on Louis’ lips, slicked with saliva and parted in a desperate cry, when he felt the warm liquid spill out over his hand, hot and sticky and  _fantastic_. Louis’ cock pulsed in his fist. He wanted nothing more than to look down and watch Louis’ dick as he came. He nearly did, but he glanced back up at the last moment, too nervous. Louis' face was much more fascinating to watch anyway - features smoothed out in ecstasy.

When Louis was done – lying back against the pillow with his eyes closed, coming down from his high – Harry wiped his hand on his discarded shirt and then used the clean corner to wipe the sweat that had accumulated on Louis’ forehead. Louis’ eyes fluttered open at the touch and he regarded Harry with something like awe. Harry smiled bashfully, blushing.

“Thank you,” Louis said. “For not...running away.”

“I didn’t want to run away.” Harry responded carefully.

The features of his face sharpened. “You know you could’ve, right? I didn’t want to make you do anything against your will. Ever. That’s shit, Harry, doing something against your will. Fucking shit.”

Harry frowned, confused by the change in subject and by the vehemence in Louis’ voice. “I...wanted to do it,” he confirmed slowly. “I mean...I was scared-”

“I know,” Louis’ fingers found his and he squeezed. Harry thought he was looking a little drowsy, the afterglow of his orgasm making him sleepy. It was cute – it made Louis look younger, more like a boy than a young man. “’S why I wanted to make you feel comfortable. I don’t usually give a shit about my partners – just fuck ‘em and go, like...but...” his eyes closed. “You’re different, Haz. ‘Don’t want to alienate you.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to focus on in that small speech – the fact that Louis had worried about how comfortable Harry was, or that he’d called Harry his partner, or that he thought Harry was different. Either way, the warm glow in his chest wouldn’t go away.

“’M gonna wash my hands.” Harry said, shaking Louis’ shoulder gently. “If you put some boxers on, I’ll climb in with you. Otherwise...’s another sleepless night for me.” He tried to say it without the sadness that resonated within him at the thought, but Louis seemed to hear it anyway.

“Don’t be stupid, Haz,” Louis rolled his weight off the bed when Harry stood, fumbling around for his duffel bag. Harry watched him root around for his underwear, unable to explain the affection that had settled in his chest. “I want to sleep with you – you’re comfy.”

Harry huffed, rolling his eyes. “Right,” he snorted as he headed to the bathroom. His thighs were trembling a little and his hard-on wasn’t helping his walking – especially trapped in these skinny jeans – but he managed, and he pulled the remainder of his clothes off bar his boxers, and splashed water over his face to cool himself down, trying not to let his thoughts weigh too heavily on what he’d just done.

Louis was snuggled in the sheets when Harry returned, calm and content and completely satisfied. Harry’s eyes watered when he saw him, in that  _he’s-so-beautiful-it-hurts_  way again. He grabbed the PlayStation controllers on his way to the bed, pulling back the sheets to get in alongside Louis. Louis sighed as though he’d been holding his breath the entire time Harry’d been gone – which was totally unrealistic of course, but Harry liked to wistfully imagine. He handed Louis the controller and Louis grinned, humming contentedly before planting a kiss on Harry’s forehead.

“You in for another sore loss, Haz?”

Harry smiled in spite of himself. He could still feel the heat of Louis’ lips against his head and it was making his stomach flip. “You’re way too big-headed for your own good, Lou,” he responded smartly, making Louis chuckle and swat at Harry’s hand on his thigh. Harry didn’t move it though – not even when he struggled to play without it.

The two of them played until one in the morning, laughing and insulting each other as easily and comfortably as ever. Harry was kind of waiting for the hammer to drop – for Louis to regret what they’d done together. It didn’t come, and by the end of their gaming session, Harry was curled up in Louis and vice versa, legs intertwined and ankles locked together. Louis complained when Harry tucked his face in the curve of Louis’ shoulder, claiming he smelled like sex. Harry had just denied that, lying through his teeth, because he rather liked Louis smelling like this, especially when Harry could curl up with him while he did. No, Louis’ shower could wait until the morning.

“You’re fucking shit at football, Haz,” Louis muttered fondly when the screen was black and the only light came from the whites of each other’s eyes, eerily glowing in the dark as they stared at each other. He brushed Harry’s fringe away from his head, ruffling the curls lightly. Harry was close to sleep, eyelids dropping dopily, but the touch still had him keening like a kitten, nuzzling into Louis. He slipped his hands over Louis’ abdomen, just letting them rest there comfortably. It was nice.

“’S not a real game,” Harry huffed, the words barely a mumble. Louis’ smile widened, white teeth flashing in the dark. 

“What, you want to show your skills on the real pitch?” Louis teased sceptically, blue eyes light with affection and happiness.

Harry gave him a light shove. “Shut up, Lou.”

Louis hummed to conceal his laughter. “Night, twat.”

Harry’s lips curved into a smile. “Night.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

When Louis woke up the next morning, Harry was gone.

For a moment, Louis froze, panic and regret and disappointment churning within him. He knew it was too good to be true. He knew it was: Harry helping him get off, the way he so desperately needed, letting him come over Harry’s hand –  _fuck_. He knew Harry would finally come to his senses and realise he didn’t want Louis in that way – that he never would.

After Sam, Louis didn’t think anyone could ever want him.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, tugging the sheet up over his face to hide himself from the world. His voice didn’t hurt as much – he could no longer feel the pressure of a golf ball lodged in his throat – but it was still slightly scratchy, rough and calloused with a cracked edge. Louis would have said it made him sound sexy, if it wasn’t for the constant reminder of how it happened.

He was pissed off, too, because he so desperately needed a cigarette, but he knew the smoke would only irritate his throat further.

“Lou?”

Louis didn’t open his eyes, but his stomach dropped at the sound of his voice.

“Um...cameras are rolling in ten minutes,” Harry continued carefully. He sounded close to Louis, like he was stood at the edge of the mattress. Sure enough, his hand came down to brush Louis’ shoulder, and Louis almost cringed at how his body instantly responded to it, relaxing and warming to Harry’s gentle touch. Louis thought he could wake up like this every day forever. “You need to shower, Lou. You, err...you smell like...uh...sex.”

Louis cracked an eye open and turned his head to look at Harry.

Harry was smiling softly – that close-lipped, flat smile he only ever got when he was staring at something beautiful. Louis grinned groggily, grateful that there was no trace of regret in Harry’s green eyes, and he yawned. Take that for looking beautiful at seven o’clock in the morning.

Harry’s visibly relaxed and he smiled freely. Louis’ breath caught in his throat. “Hey,” Harry murmured.

“Hi,” Louis croaked. Harry looked divine, dressed in sinfully tight skinny jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Even sleepy, Louis could still admire the way it clung to his broad shoulders, outlining his frankly delightful body. His hair was drying in dripping curls around his face. It was in his eyes, making Harry blink forcefully, and Louis wanted to reach up and sweep his hand through his fringe for him. Harry cut him to the chase, ruffling his hands through the sides of his hair before brushing his long fringe to the side. Water cascaded from him like a wet dog, and Louis bit back his laugh.

“You’re dressed already?” Jesus, would his voice ever get better? He sounded  _rough_.

Harry shrugged. “I...uh...my mind didn’t shut up all night,” he mumbled. “And my phone kept going off. Bloody Twitter – I’m going to deactivate everything, I swear.”

Louis scowled, sitting up. He felt filthy – dried sweat and come crusted between his skin and the waistband of his boxers. Apparently Harry hadn’t wiped it all off last night. It explained the heady scent of sex that pervaded the room, however – it sent Louis’ mind spinning. He cleared his throat, trying not to wince. “Don’t do that.”

Harry’s eyes roamed Louis’ body, but he pretended not to notice to save his embarrassment. He did feel self-conscious, though, with Harry’s attention on him. He was usually good at handling attention – craved it, even – but now he felt insecure. He tried to brush it off.

“I have notifications enabled because my family use it to contact me,” Harry explained, shifting his weight uneasily. “But now your fans won’t stop Tweeting me. It’s like my phone is constantly having a fit.”

Louis beamed, thrilled by the shot of pride that went through him at his words. It was a nice feeling – that Louis’ fans appreciated Harry as much as he did. Since they got it in their heads that Souis – Louis tried not to wince – was a thing, they’d disapproved of every other guy that had come within a three-mile radius of Louis. Louis didn’t mind; it wasn’t like he was going to base his romance choices on what his fans said, but it was a good thing – that they liked Harry. Because Louis didn’t want to have to deal with hate.

“Switch notifications off,” Louis advised him, hand outstretched for Harry’s phone. He raised his eyebrows expectantly when Harry didn’t move. “Hand it over, come on.” When Harry still didn’t, Louis lunged for it, snatching it out of Harry’s hand. “I was just trying to be polite but now you’re being difficult.”

Harry frowned. “Do you always do this? Just take other people’s stuff without their permission?”

Louis shrugged and made a non-committal sound. He thumbed his way through Harry’s Twitter. He’d gained loads of followers in the past four days and the constant notification activity had the app freezing several times. His mentions were mostly fan compliments, media articles and fan-art. Louis frowned when he saw one tweet:  _Harry, cut your hair it’s gross ew –_ and he promptly blocked the user. He didn’t want Harry to see that. Louis could only imagine how gutted he’d be – how dejected he’d feel about himself. He’d only just started to gain confidence, there was no way Louis was going to let anyone ruin that.

“I’ll ask my agent to get you verified later,” Louis remarked, grabbing his own phone to rest alongside Harry’s. “It’ll stop the chaos when you go on it.”

He knew it was just one Tweet – one person’s opinion didn’t reflect the majority – but it was one Tweet too many in Louis’ opinion. He also knew that if he looked up Harry’s tag, there’d be more assholes throwing shade to Harry’s appearance. Feeling inexplicably angry, Louis made a point of Tweeting from his own account.

@Louis_Tomlinson: Just to say that I don’t appreciate ANY hate sent Harry’s way. He is the kindest, gentlest guy and he doesn’t deserve rudeness. So pissed off and hurt by some of the comments I’m seeing sent his way !

Instantly his mentions blew up. The replies were split between offering condolences to Harry, shipping Larry Stylinson, or wondering why Louis unfollowed Sam yesterday. He ignored the replies and hit ‘Tweet’ again.

@Louis_Tomlinson: He’s not the best on Twitter or whatever, I get that. But social networking isn’t his scene. Hard enough to get him in my videos ! However, this doesn’t make bullying alright !

Louis was proud when he found that his fans were already trending two hashtags worldwide. #LouisLovesHarrysHair and #LarryNOTsouis. There – they’d come around eventually. Louis grinned.

When Harry’s phone lit up from all the fresh mentions, buzzing erratically, Harry threw up his hands in frustration and stalked over to his duffel bag, muttering something unintelligible, and started to pack their mess away. Louis hadn’t noticed – he was quite an untidy person as it was – but their clothes were strewn over the floor, no distinguishing between what belonged to whom. Odd photographs lay abandoned in the room too, as if that was a normal thing – tucked in Harry’s untouched pillows on his bed, hanging out of the bedside unit draw, wedged between the radiator and the wall. It was kind of sentimental to Louis; it was like a tribute to Harry’s personality. Whatever he found beautiful enough to capture now lay about their room in tattered, rejected pieces. Perhaps it was because Harry had found something better to obsess over.

Louis tried not to let his mind run over that thought too much.

Louis flicked through Harry’s Twitter mentions. There was so much explicit fan-art – holy  _shit_. Louis almost choked when he saw a rather explicit drawing of them naked, Harry pinning Louis against the wall, kissing his neck feverishly. In the picture, Louis had his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist and his fingers were gripping Harry’s hair, both of them lost in their pleasure. Louis tried to drown out the pang of desire in his stomach by focusing on his worrisome thoughts. Had Harry seen the picture? Was he turned off by it? Because Louis certainly wasn’t.

He was put off that the fans seemed to think Louis would never top, though. Did they think Harry was more dominant than him?

Louis remembered the scolding look Harry had given him when he’d tried to fuck up into Harry’s fist last night, overcome with need and desperation that he’d found himself too frustrated by Harry’s slow pace. Harry had pressed his free hand into Louis’ thigh, pushing him down, a warning sound emanating from his mouth. Louis had been so surprised – so shocked by the authority and power that Harry seemed to ooze in his movements – that he had instantly submitted. At first, he thought it was because Harry wasn’t ready for Louis to respond to him that way, that he wasn’t brave enough to let Louis thrust in time with his hand. But now, Louis wondered if it was more than that. If it was because Harry wanted some measure of control.

Louis looked at him now. He moved slowly about the room, picking up stray items of clothing and dumping them back into the respective duffel bags. There was tension in his shoulders – but there always was – and Louis wondered if there was a reason it was there. If, behind the shy front Harry put on, he was struggling. If there was something within Harry that didn’t have control. Maybe he was seeking that – that control that Louis gave him last night.

Louis remembered that paparazzo’s words:  _“Bet this dude fucks hard and rough, right?”_

Louis swallowed, pinching the insides of his thighs to stop himself from getting hard. The offense he felt towards the fans seemed to drain away as he thought more about it. Harry was bigger than him, and stronger, and Louis was sure he’d seen a hint of something other than Harry’s usual characteristic-shyness in his green eyes last night. What would it be like to have Harry use that over Louis? The idea made Louis shiver in excitement but also a weight of fear drop into his stomach. The only time anyone had been that dominant over him was when Sam had mercilessly shoved his cock down Louis’ throat. The result of that hadn’t been pleasant.

Harry wouldn’t be like that, would he?

“Lou...Hello? Louis-” A hand waved over his vision and he blinked, focusing back on Harry. He was stood before him, tapping his watch meaningfully. “Cameras are here in five minutes.”

There was a measure of amusement in Harry’s eyes and Louis just wanted to touch his lips, to see him smile with that same hilarity. He leaned forward and Harry shifted on the balls of his feet, clearly aware of Louis’ every movement.

“I like this,” Louis fingered the bandana that hung from Harry’s front pocket, dangerously close to his crotch. His hair hung loosely around his face, barely brushing his shoulders, but he obviously planned to tie it back. Louis wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “But I like your curls more."

Harry blinked, running a hand through his hair again. “Gets in my face,” he mumbled, and Louis thought his breathing was slightly stuttered. He checked his watch. “Four minutes, Lou.”

Louis groaned and yanked the sheets away from his body, pressing Harry’s phone in his hand. “Okay, fine. Fuck it. I’m up.” He wandered towards his duffel bag to collect some clothes, growling, “Fucking bastards want to get up at the crack of dawn. Who the bloody hell  _does_  that?”

Harry grinned, a quiet chuckle shaking his shoulders and – bloody hell – Harry didn’t laugh enough. Louis could barely breathe with how good it felt to hear his laugh, quiet and subdued but still full of glee. Louis reached out and brushed Harry’s wrist as he walked past him to the bathroom, and the simplest of touch was enough to get goosebumps to rise over his skin. Touching Harry was addictive, something Louis thought he’d never get over.

He was about to shut the bathroom door, the shower already running, when Harry’s voice sounded through the room, choked and uncomfortable. “Um, Louis?”

Louis poked his head around the doorframe. “Yeah?”

Harry turned to face him, a small bottle engulfed by his large hands. Louis couldn’t make out what it was from the label, but by the embarrassed hue to Harry’s cheeks, he could guess what it was.

“This is definitely yours, right?”

Louis inhaled deeply. He could make this an awkward conversation for Harry, or brush it off as nothing. As much as he wanted to make Harry as comfortable as possible – he  _never_  wanted to be responsible for his squirming, unless, of course, it was in bed – he also enjoyed fucking around with Harry, enjoyed making him...well,  _squirm_.

So he did exactly that. “What is it?”

Harry sputtered. “Uh...um, it’s your bottle of...um...it’s not  _mine_. I don’t have any – like, I don’t need it. Bloody hell, Lou.”

Louis grinned, but then he forced his features into a frown for Harry’s benefit. “What is it?” He repeated, slower this time.

Harry paused. “It’s...your lube.” Louis couldn’t see Harry’s eyes – the younger boy was too busy staring at the bottle of lube in his hands, as though it held all the answers in the world but it was also some sort of devil incarnate. Mixed emotions, Louis supposed. It was natural in those that questioned their sexuality.

Louis leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. They were very much running out of time. “Which one?”

“You have more than one?” Harry’s eyes seemed to bug out of his sockets. “Jesus Christ, Louis! Why did you even bring it? You knew you wouldn’t be able to bring anyone back here – like, you’re sharing a room with me...”

Louis refused to mention that it might come in handy, especially if Harry was going to look at him like  _that_  all day. That wide-eyed, green gawk of innocence seemed to conflict with his dark, controlling gaze he’d given Louis last night while he slowly tossed him off, kissing him sinfully.

Louis shook his head, muttering, “You’re going to fucking kill me,” so quietly that Harry couldn’t hear. Louder, he said, “I was going to use it to get off, last night...” When Harry still frowned, Louis sighed, feeling heat flood to his own cheeks as he explained, “I wanted to have some fun with my ass, alright? It’s been a while.”

Harry backed up, dropping the lube on the bed as though it burned. “Holy  _shit_. Did you really have to include that detail?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

Harry seemed too embarrassed to form coherent sentences. “But you were getting off to  _me_...”

Louis threw his hands up, unable to conceal his smirk at the whiny edge to Harry’s tone. “And then you showed up.  _Perfect_  – I didn’t even need to use it.”

Harry seemed to be trying to wrap his head around the fact that Louis had considered fingering himself over him. “ _Bloody hell_ ,” he muttered under his breath and Louis snorted.

“Well, don’t leave it  _there_ , Curly,” he said, gesturing to the bottle on the bed. “Cameras are here any minute.”

Louis took great satisfaction – and filthy imaginings – over the fact that Harry didn’t put the lube in Louis’ duffel bag, but he tucked it in the drawer beside Louis’ bed, wiping his hand on his jeans nervously afterwards. He was too naive and too dorky and too adorable for Louis to even comprehend.

“Shower,” Harry reminded him quietly, cheeks still flaming. There was a lot of tension in his muscles; at least, Louis thought there was. Harry had his back to him, shoulders rigid. _“Now.”_

There it was again – that measure of dominance in Harry that Louis had never known existed. Now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it. He wanted Harry to exercise it on him, to grip him firmly and speak his name with the power and control he had last night. Louis grinned, mostly to hide his dirty thoughts, and saluted. “Yes, sir. This is the Tommo – I’m out.”

Louis thought he heard Harry’s amused grumble sound through the door – “Bloody idiot.”

Louis kind of wished he seen Harry’s inevitable accompanying smile, but he really  _did_  have to get ready.

 

-*-

 

 

Harry was sat on Louis’ bed, rolling his Polaroid between his hands, when the cameraman entered the room. He was contemplating the meeting he’d been to last night; the idea of actually gaining a career through this charity had been a long-shot at most, and when they’d brought it up, he’d been sceptical first, hopeful second. Maybe he could do it – make a name for himself in photography. It was more than he had ever dared to dream. He wanted it: the chance to spend his life getting paid for doing something he loved – capturing beauty and harnessing it. 

“Styles,” the cameramen nodded. This one had a habit of referring to them by their last names, Harry knew. He was surprised he was the only one who’d turned up – usually there was a team of at least four crowding into the room at this time in the morning. “Where’s Tomlinson?”

Harry tilted his head towards the bathroom. “Shower,” he said quietly. The crew rarely spoke to Harry and Louis, which he thought was a shame since they could possibly try and get along. But Harry wasn’t too bothered – Louis was all he ever needed in a companion.

“Ah,” the cameraman smiled. Harry’s eyes narrowed; there was something shifty about him, something uncomfortable. Perhaps it was in his cold grey eyes, or the twitch to his lip. Harry zoned in on it instantly.

“What’s up?”

“Listen, Harry,” the man said carefully. “We’ve been instructed to...um...warn you about...the consequences of being seen with Tomlinson.”

Harry didn’t like the dirty way he said Louis’ name, as though it was wrong to be friends with him. He frowned. “I  _have_  to be seen with Louis.”

“Louis is...he’s very gay.” There was definitely a sneer to his tone now. Harry felt a muscle jump in his jaw and he clenched his teeth together.

“Yes,” Harry responded, his voice low with an unspoken warning. “He’s part of the LGBTQ community.” Harry couldn’t help the pride that seeped into his tone when he said it.

“Well, it’s just to say – that is,  _you’re_  being questioned."

Harry shut down, throwing up a mental barrier to conceal his emotions. He tried very hard not to think about what he did last night, not to think about Louis’ cock throbbing in his hand – hot and damp and  _good_.  He didn’t want the tell-tale flush to his cheeks to give him away. “Right.” He prayed the man didn’t hear the quiver in his voice.

“And – Arts’ Week, for Aspire Generations, is supposed to be about...well, art.”

“I’m glad we’ve established this,” Harry said flatly. “Considering we’re over half-way though already. Would have been a waste if we’d gotten the point all wrong. You’d have had to extend it – made it Arts’ Month.”

The man seemed to leer at Harry’s barely concealed sarcasm. Harry couldn’t help it; he felt trapped. And when he felt like he was being backed into a corner, he either responded harshly or he ran away. At the moment, he was sort of torn between the two, but the desire to keep Louis safe – to keep his name shade-free – was something Harry couldn’t resist.

“That’s the thing, Styles,” the man rolled his eyes. “We reckon you  _are_  getting the point all wrong. You see, the papers are covering Arts’ Week well enough – getting the charities name recognised, boosting sales in the talents covered etcetera...” he blathered, waving carelessly. “But the media is writing – well, they seem to write  _two lines_  about Arts’ Week – and the rest of the five-hundred word article is debating the chances that you and Tomlinson are getting it on behind closed doors. That is, the majority of the discussion this week has been whether or not you, Harry Styles – mysterious, gorgeous photographer – are out of the closet.”

Harry flushed. “’M not gay,” he protested weakly, but his mind spoke differently – thoughts playing over Louis’ lips, pink and slick with Harry’s saliva, and how they pressed firmly against Harry’s, chasing away his doubt. He couldn’t deny that he wanted it even now, with the man’s all-seeing stare boring into Harry, and the insides of Harry’s gut twisting with stress.

The cameraman didn’t even hear his words, or it seemed like it anyway. “Naturally, Tomlinson’s agent is worried.”

Louis had an agent? How famous  _was_  he? Harry stayed quiet.

“Since he cut ties with Sam Oakwood on social networking sites yesterday, she’s been trying to get hold of Louis, but apparently, his phone is broken.” The man’s smooth tone showed exactly how much he believed that story.

Harry bit his lip. He knew full well Louis’ phone was perfectly fine. In fact, if the cameraman were to just flip back Louis’ duvet, he’d probably see it lying between the sheets, YouTube app still open where he’d left it.

But that wasn’t what caught Harry’s mind. “Louis stopped his connections with Sam?”

The man gave him a withering look, almost to say:  _‘as if you didn’t already know.’_ Harry didn’t, but suddenly he was desperate to know why. What had happened between Louis and Sam that had made Louis reject ties with him?

“Anyway, the drama on Twitter has caused a little bit of a stirring in the fans – and there’s starting to be a...backlash, as it were.”

Harry felt dread churn in his stomach. He didn’t much understand Twitter – only enough about Tweeting and posting pictures – so he didn’t understand the network of fans that seemed to run it. “What do you mean?”

“The kid is well known for his work with gay charities and whatever, but the media has started to get bored with the constant saint-trips. They’re taking a spin on it, wondering if there’s more up Tomlinson’s sleeve – more than he’s letting on.”

Absent-mindedly, Harry clicked his fingers nervously. “Can you, like, cut to the point? I don’t...err...I get a bit confused when people beat around the bush, you know?” Harry’s throat tightened. He couldn’t help but feel this was it – this was the hammer. The hammer coming down between Louis and Harry, the hammer he’d expected Louis’d be holding.

“They think it’s Tomlinson’s influence that’s making teenagers gay. Some people – American audiences mostly but it’s spreading over here – they think that perhaps if Louis didn’t get involved, the kids would stay...you know,  _straight_.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous.” Harry rarely swore – he was much too passive for that – but when he did, he meant it. “That’s disgusting; it’s treating Louis like he has some...disease or something...and he’s spreading it.”

The man put his hands up in surrender. “I’m just speaking what everyone’s thinking,” he said innocently, though Harry didn’t like the man’s disapproving twitch to his lips. “Point is: since these articles about you being gay have been printed, the rumours are getting louder. It looks weird, doesn’t it? I mean, you’re not at the typical age where one...gets confused about his sexuality. You’re  _twenty-two_ ; aren’t you supposed to have that all figured out, already?”

Harry didn’t say anything; honestly, he’d been wondering the same thing.

“And then you’re paired up with Tomlinson – who’s getting whispered about in the shadows of the internet – and suddenly...you  _don’t_  have it all figured out. Kind of all fits, really.”

“You think Louis  _made_  me gay?”

“Oh no, I don’t think that at all,” the man said smoothly, but his eyes seemed to widen, and Harry realised then that he’d said too much too soon; he’d practically admitted something he wasn’t even sure was true. He pressed his lips into a thin line, scowling. His mind was screaming at him, screaming to run – he’d never felt so restricted in his life. Everything he said, every movement he made, was being tabbed by this man, documented for some other claim. He’d never felt so trapped. “ _They_  think that though. The fans. The media. They’re all saying it.”

“Fucking assholes,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. He didn’t know who he was referring to – whether he meant the fans, the reporters, Louis’ agent, the man in front of him or even Louis himself.  _No, not Louis,_  he thought.  _Never Louis_. “It’s not true – none of it is true.”

The man stood. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “We’re going to work with some of the footage we’ve already got when it comes to the movie – you’re probably not going to get much air time compared to the other collab groups, if we’re honest. It keeps the rumours at a low, you know? So don’t worry about our cameras; just focus on the outside world, okay?”

It was cryptic advice to say the least. Did that mean they weren’t going to film Louis and Harry anymore? Why did Harry feel like it was a punishment? A chastisement for doing something wrong?

“It’s not true,” he said desperately, clutching at the duvet beneath him to keep from grabbing the man’s wrist frantically. “Louis isn’t – he’s not like that. He’d never push kids into anything they didn’t want to do.”  _Hell, he didn’t even push_ me _into anything I didn’t want to do,_  he thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. The last thing the man needed was another confirmation. Which  _wasn’t_  a confirmation. Jesus, Harry was so confused.

“Tell that to them, Styles,” the man warned. “And make them believe it. This is Arts’ Week, not National Coming Out Day. We want arts.”

“And internet.”

The man conceded – he’d clearly wanted the last word. “And internet. Arts and internet. If I were you, I’d keep to yourself about this. The last thing we want to see is magazines detailing you and Louis are fighting. Gay rumours...they can spark awkwardness between two people, you know?”

If Louis thought Harry was bad at explaining things, he needed to meet this guy. “So you don’t want me to tell Louis?” Harry could feel a headache forming behind his eyes.

The man shook his head. “We want to see your friendship,” the man confirmed. “Just not your romance.”

“There’s no romance-”

It didn’t matter – the man didn’t hear him anyway. He’d already left, the door closing firmly behind them. Harry’s shoulders slumped, and he collapsed against Louis mattress, squeezing his eyes shut to drown out the loud noise of his thoughts.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry that it took so long for this to get updated! I had computer issues, then I thought I lost the manuscript forever, and it was all one palava after another! Here is the next chapter at last!

When Louis finally emerged from the shower, Harry almost pounced on him. He was driven by the sudden panic that had set in his chest, the feeling of repression, the desperate desire curling in his stomach. He couldn’t help but feel like he was going to lose Louis, like the older boy was slipping through his fingers. It was all out of his control – everything.

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry muttered, reaching up from his seat on the bed to grab his wrist as he walked past. He was dressed – wearing baggy tracksuits and a black vest top that flashed his tattoos. A sports jacket was slung over his arm. He held a lighter clenched in his hands, thumb flicking the ignition absently, and Harry carefully extracted the item from his grip, too worked up to mention his distaste for the habit. “Come here.”

Louis stared down at him, uncomprehending. “Harry?”

“Please, Louis,” Harry breathed feverishly, looking up at Louis like he was Harry’s whole world – perhaps he was. “Let me kiss you. Please. Now – before the cameras capture everything we do and-”  _and I can’t touch you anymore._

Louis didn’t need telling twice. He liked to think he was a moral person – but he wasn’t a saint. He reached for Harry, running his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry gripped his wrist gently – just by a thumb and forefinger, but it felt like that was enough. It was enough to tie Louis to him, to keep him here forever, by Harry’s side.

Louis dipped his head down until their foreheads were touching, rocking towards and then away from each other, both too overcome by the sudden need they shared to make the first move, to let their lips touch. Harry let go of Louis’ wrist to grip onto his thighs, pinning him between his legs, and they were so close they breathed the same air – short, quick, fast breaths. It was almost comical how quickly the tension in the air had escalated a few notches, and Harry would have giggled self-consciously if it was not for the panic that raced through his heart, the uncanny sense within him that this may be the last time he ever got to touch Louis like this.

Which was ridiculous. Louis wasn’t going anywhere. For the next three days, anyway.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off Louis’ mouth, slicked with saliva, trembling with anticipation. He could see every crease in Louis’ lips, the small crevasse where he sometimes bit them – an insecure habit. He wasn’t biting them now, but his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip and Harry almost trembled with longing.

“Harry,” Louis’ mouth shaped his name like it was glorified; at least, Harry thought there was no one else on this world who could say his name the way Louis did. That was ridiculous, right? That Louis could make his name sound any different to the way it usually did.

Harry didn’t wait for Louis’ next words. He leaned in, pressing his mouth to his, and Louis groaned into his mouth, surrendering, hands running over Harry’s hair, down his shoulders, across the planes of his back. Harry couldn’t hold back his whimper – Louis tasted so good, and he felt so heavy and light and rough and smooth and Harry was as overwhelmed by him as he was last night. He clutched at Louis’ thighs, nails surely raking him through the thin material of his tracksuit and when he squeezed the flesh – just at the place where his thigh met his ass – Louis hissed. “Don’t do that.”

He said it in a way that Harry thought meant ‘please do’ but he checked anyway. “Not good?” He mumbled against Louis’ mouth, lips and teeth and tongues clashing.

“Fucking fantastic,” Louis admitted breathlessly, and he slid his hands beneath Harry’s shirt, running his fingers across the lines of Harry’s abs, across his chest, nails flicking over his nipples. Harry’s breath caught, and he withdrew slightly.

“Nope,” Louis chased the movement, not allowing Harry to pull away, and he planted one knee on the mattress between Harry’s legs. “You’re not running away. I mean – like... _fuck’s_   _sake_ , Harry.”

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry moaned, pulling the older boy on top of him, gasping as Louis shifted his weight over Harry’s half-hard cock. “Why do you make me feel so good?” He said it despairingly, and anyone else would have been turned off by the complaint in his voice, but Louis understood.

“It’s confusing, baby,” he said, delicately tracing his thumb across Harry’s cheekbone. Harry leant into the touch, running his hands over Louis’ body – his thighs, his stomach, his hips, his chest, his shoulders. He pressed a kiss into the curve of Louis neck, loving the way he arched his throat for Harry – baring himself to him. He was so freaking beautiful and for now, at least, he was Harry’s. “It’s okay, Haz,” Louis continued, his words weak and trembling. “If it feels good...if you want it, it’s okay. It’s okay to want it.”

“You feel good,” Harry whined, squeezing his eyes shut against Louis’ neck. Louis pressed a kiss into his hair, running his hand beneath Harry’s shirt, travelling up his spine with a feather-light touch and – Oh, God – that felt  _amazing_. Harry responded, teeth grazing Louis’ collar, sucking lightly, revelling in the way Louis’ skin vibrated against his mouth as he hummed with pleasure.

“We should stop...” Louis muttered weakly, twining his fingers in Harry’s hair. He tugged – softly – until Harry met his gaze. Louis pressed kisses over Harry’s face, little tiny pecks that Harry let himself enjoy – eyes closed with his mind shut off to cease his second-thoughts. Harry made a noise of agreement, but neither of them stopped their administrations. “The cameras-”

“Not coming,” Harry managed, licking softly at Louis’ jaw. Louis let out a long breath and Harry savoured the shiver that ran down his spine. That was for him. All of this, all of Louis’ appreciation, his noises, his hard cock against Harry’s hips – that was all because of  _Harry_. It was a heady thought, something that sent Harry’s mind spiralling. “Chauffeur will be here...in ten.”

Louis pulled back then, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Not coming?” He asked, “The cameras?”

“Not coming,” Harry confirmed, but he didn’t say any more on the matter. There was a note of finality in his voice, something that seemed to say  _end of discussion._

Louis didn’t seem to care about why, though. He just smirked and said, “Fuck, Harry – you’re  _mouth_.”

Harry touched his lips with his fingertips, finding them swollen and hot to the touch. He worried briefly what this might look like to everyone – the fans waiting outside the hotel for them, the paparazzi lurking at their YouTube conference they were set to attend today. Harry was sure he looked flustered – swollen lips, pink cheeks, glassy eyes.

But for the moment he didn’t care. “ _Louis_ ,” he breathed, bringing his hands up to touch Louis’ face, fingers tracing the stubble across his jaw. His facial hair grew quickly, Harry noted, since he’d shaved yesterday, and it was nice to know that small detail, to know something about Louis that no fan, no journalist would know. “Ten minutes – here in ten. Our handler.”

“You  _need_  to be handled – look at you; you’re a wild mess.”

Harry grinned, unable to hold back his laughter. He was surprised at how easy this was, how comfortable. They were talking as though they were sat playing Fifa, not half-reclined on the bed with Louis straddling Harry’s lap, both at least half-hard. It was exhilarating – this. Being with Louis this way knowing he probably  _shouldn’t_  be. All thoughts, all doubt, all judgment in his mind had temporarily fled, leaving Harry with his body’s desires and nothing in his thoughts to stop him.

He ran his hands up Louis’ thighs, edging towards his waistband. He was clearly hard in his pants – straining against the crotch of his tracksuits. “How quickly can you come?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, pressing his hand against Harry’s chest. Harry liked the weight of Louis on top of him. It felt good. “What if they’re early?”

Harry glanced towards the clock. “We’re not. We’re on time. If you can come fast.”

Louis’ eyes flashed. “ _Make_  me come fast.”

Harry took that for assent, and he threw all his last indecisiveness to the wind as he tugged Louis’ pants down to his mid-thighs. Louis sucked in a sharp breath when he gripped his cock, whimpering when Harry started to move his hand up and down. There was no trace of uncertainty in Harry’s grip now – not now that he had done it before. In fact, he seemed to know exactly when to speed up, slow down, grip harder. He reached up for Louis’ face, yanking him down for a kiss, and they were both sweating – Harry straining and Louis moaning. Louis’ teeth clamped down on Harry’s bottom lip, rolling it gently into his mouth. Harry felt the sensation shoot straight to his groin and he pushed on Louis’ shoulder softly, huffing.

“Don’t do  _that_  – I don’t have time to get off too,” he mumbled against Louis’ mouth.

“Poor you,” Louis teased, fingers digging firmly into Harry’s shoulders. Harry gritted his teeth. Louis looked so  _beautiful_  – head tipped back, baring his throat to Harry, lips parted – as Harry pumped his cock, slow and teasing, at least for the moment. A sheen of sweat glistened on Louis’ face, his lashes flaring across his cheekbones as shadows inflicted by the early-morning light. The faint scratch of stubble blurred the sharp line of his jaw and Harry pressed his lips beneath it, against his pulse-point; Louis’ heart was beating rapidly, much like Harry’s. He didn’t care that he’d have to explain this to himself later, to come to terms with what he was doing, because this was Louis – and Harry was the one who was making him whine like that, making him keen Harry’s name softly into his ear.

“You  _look_  amazing,” Harry told him, the words slow and deep, guttural almost. Louis mewled quietly – high-pitched – and he met Harry’s eyes. He had such striking eyes, thundery shades of blue, dark with need and passion and hunger. It was all for Harry. “You  _smell_  amazing...”

“’M close, baby – oh, shit – faster-”

Harry increased the pace, brushing his thumb across the tip of Louis’ cock. Pre-come oozed from the slit, and Harry switched hands, pumping Louis’ dick with his clean hand whilst he licked the pre-come from his thumb. Louis exhaled, the breath shaky, and he was looking at Harry with so much awe, so much affection. Harry soaked it all up, all Louis’ attention, because his chest warmed with it; it made him feel as though he was on cloud nine.

“Come on, Lou,” Harry urged, pressing his dampened thumb against Louis’ thigh as he reached up and kissed him. Louis could no doubt taste himself on Harry’s mouth but if he cared, he showed no sign. “You can come now. Come now, Louis.”

“Harry, oh, fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ -” Louis choked off, coming hot and sticky into Harry’s hand. Several spurts hit Harry’s black t-shirt, the cloudy liquid standing in stark contrast to the dark material. Louis relaxed in Harry’s grip, going lax and pliant, head lolling on Harry’s shoulder. Warm fondness spread through Harry, settling in his chest, and he ran his hand up Louis’ spine, fingers splayed across the nape of his neck.

How was it possible? How was it possible to feel so much for someone he barely knew? He’d known Louis Tomlinson for four days – such a short time – and yet it felt like he’d completely changed Harry’s world. He felt different, saw things differently; it was dangerous, really, how much Harry felt for Louis.

Louis lifted his head and checked the clock. “Nine minutes, Styles,” he said dryly. “Good job.”

Harry’s shoulders trembled with silent laughter. “Un-bloody-believable,” he said, shaking his head. Louis ran his thumbs across Harry’s lips, eyebrows drawn in contemplative sincerity.

“You don’t laugh enough,” he commented and Harry gripped his shirt to bring him back down for a kiss.

A horn sounded outside. They both jumped and then relaxed again, giggling softly. Louis rolled off Harry, pulling his tracksuit bottoms back up. Harry stood, feeling mellow and light – almost as if it was him who’d just experienced an orgasm – and strode over to the bathroom to wash his hands. After, he went to his duffel bag to pull out a clean shirt and yanked off his come-caked one.

Fingertips treaded over the planes of his back, dipping in the flesh of his muscles – tense with surprise. “You’ve got a gorgeous back, Haz.”

He bit his lip, flushing. “Uh, thanks?”

Harry felt Louis’ lips – soft and tender and light – press against the centre of his spine, right in the curve of the small of his back. Goosebumps rippled across his skin and he shivered, pulling his shirt back on. He ruffled his hair and glanced at Louis. He wouldn’t be able to be like this around Louis today, with the cameras rolling. The thought made a lump form in his throat.

“Ready?”

Louis grinned. “You look more fucked than I do,” he said smartly – proudly, almost. “Come on – we’re gonna be bloody late!”

 

-*-

 

Harry really didn’t like being on stage. He’d only had to do it once – during a compulsory drama project at school – and he’d gotten so nervous that he’d made a prat of himself. He’d pranced around the stage, pulling faces, dancing awkwardly with gangly limbs flying everywhere. He’d even tripped over nothing, ended up winded, lying flat on his back. It was probably the most embarrassing moment of his entire life. 

So, seeing the stage up ahead, with five stools sat ominously in a line, Harry couldn’t help but baulk.

“I don’t have to go up, do I?” He asked Louis, gesturing to the stage. “I can just stay and take pictures from the audience?”

“Nope,” Louis rolled his eyes. “Arts’ Week, remember? We have to do it together. It’ll be fine; I’ll help you.”

Harry swallowed.

“Please welcome to the stage YouTube megastar Louis Tomlinson and his Arts’ Collab partner, budding photographer Harry Styles!”

Harry had never felt so sick. Louis placed a hand on his elbow to guide him and Harry used that to follow, feeling as though his trembling legs were too weak to support his weight. He walked out on the stage, and the screams of all the fans watching seemed to completely overwhelm him for a moment before Louis’ voice in his ear soothed him.

“Deep breaths. You have to stand behind me – I gotta take the stool.”

Louis took the stool in the middle, waving humbly and throwing up a signature sign of his – Harry remembered Louis telling him it was his ‘Westside’ sign, whatever that meant – and his fans called their names in a monotonous chant – high-pitched and desperate and gleeful.

It wasn’t just the sheer number of people in this theatre that got to Harry, but it was the signs they were holding up. Everywhere he looked, there were signs supporting ‘Larry Stylinson’, begging for them to come out and admit their relationship. Harry saw nothing related to art or even the other YouTubers – and that panicked him. Sure enough, down by the side of the stage, the cameraman he’d spoken to earlier was staring at him, and he didn’t look happy.

There were more rainbows in this room – and the symbol for homosexuality – than he’d ever seen in his life. There was a poster directly in his eye-line, one that said ‘Harry, we support you, no matter what!’ complete with a large, vibrant rainbow. Harry couldn’t help his small smile – it was nice, knowing that there were people in this world who didn’t care who he loved.

For a moment, he stilled, surprised that he’d thought it. When did he ever admit to himself that he was gay? Wasn’t it supposed to be some sort of monumental turning-point? Something you always remembered? Like, ' _Oh, that was the day I decided I was gay...'_

He shook the thoughts off. He didn’t like guys, he liked  _Louis_. And whether or not that made him gay, he’d take it. Even if it meant he had to hide it for Louis’ sake. It was much too loud in here to focus on the consequences of that thought, so he pushed it away.

Harry didn’t really know what to do with his hands, so he rested them on Louis’ shoulders, tapping them absent-mindedly. Harry could feel the almost imperceptible way Louis relaxed into his touch, and that – that was nice. It soothed Harry.

The host introduced the rest of the YouTubers, but Harry sort of zoned out until he heard Sam Oakwood’s name, and he felt Louis’ muscles stiffen beneath Harry’s touch. He was visibly quivering, and Harry kneaded his thumbs into the nape of Louis’ neck, trying to calm him. He didn’t know why Louis was so panicked and tense, but he didn’t like it – hated to see wild, carefree Louis so angry and riled up.

Harry leaned forward, pressing his lips to Louis’ ear. “You’re explaining this reaction when we’re back at the hotel.”

Louis just gave a sad smile and leaned forward again. Harry didn’t remove his hands.

The conference was mostly uneventful, except for the part where Louis’ friendship with Harry was brought up.

“So we want a question for Louis, now!” The host announced, turning to the crowd. He’d been taking fan questions sporadically over the conference but so long as they didn’t involve Harry’s name, he didn’t really bother to listen.

“Louis, you’ve been with Harry for every second of every day for the last four days. Can you use four words to sum him up?”

Louis tilted his head back, leaning into Harry’s chest so he could see him properly. Looking at Louis upside down was kind of weird, and Harry smirked. Louis let out a breath and where they were so close, it ruffled Harry’s fringe. At that moment, Harry didn’t hear the ‘Larry Stylinson’ chants. He didn’t hear the screams. He only heard the quiet breathing of Louis, he only saw Louis’ eyes, Louis’ fond smile.

“Harry is...kind, gentle, shy and attractive,” Louis said, ticking each word off with his fingers. He nodded to himself, pleased. “Good lad. Nice little body.”

Harry flushed, squeezing Louis’ shoulder. The fans screamed so loudly that Harry could feel ringing in his ears, but he drowned it out when the host addressed him.

“And Harry?” Harry looked up, wide-eyed. “What about Louis?”

What about Louis, Harry thought wistfully. Louis was wild, and funny. He was fond and accepting and loyal and outgoing. He was Harry’s – for now. Harry’s everything.

“Louis is spontaneous...loud...” Harry started off slowly, unsure where he was going with it. Just as he was about to say ‘Hey, he’s attractive too,’ he caught the gaze of the cameraman, watching them with a flat mouth. The worry climbed up his throat again, and his stomach flipped. He couldn’t encourage this – it would fuel the rumours, drag Louis’ name in the dirt.  _They think that perhaps if Louis didn’t get involved, the kids would stay...you know,_ straight _._ “Loud and loud.”

It was a cop-out answer and Louis laughed along with the rest of the crowd, but Harry couldn’t deny the spark of hurt in his eyes. He knew Harry had just pulled from an answer, that he’d refused to give the truth. Harry couldn’t look at the injured look on Louis’ face, so he stared at his own fingers, gaze flitting over the cross tattoo between his forefinger and thumb.

“Wow,” Louis said sarcastically. “Flattered with compliments.”

The crowd laughed. Sam’s cackle was particularly loud, and Harry had never felt so shit about himself in his entire life.

He could have shown how proud he was of Louis, could have completely boasted about him the way that Louis did about him. He could have done that – should have. But Harry could feel the pressure on his shoulders, the pressure of the cameraman, the media, the fans. And he’d clammed. Hurt Louis. By the way Louis tensed when he heard Sam’s derisive laughter, Harry knew he was sporting a wounded pride. Harry felt a shot of frustration run through him. He was supposed to be there for Louis, to be a good friend. And instead, he’d ditched him, made him a temporary laughing stock.

Harry had never felt so guilty in his entire life.


	15. Chapter 15

Louis didn’t mention the conference at all. In fact, he hardly spoke to Harry for the rest of the day. Not during the rest of the conference, not during the fan signing – which Harry took a backseat in anyway – and not even during their silent trip back to the hotel in their escalade. Harry took what little bit of comfort he could out of the fact that Louis still placed his hand on Harry’s thigh, fingers drumming against his crotch. It was good. But not enough.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Harry sighed, looking out of the window. He wouldn’t admit that he was looking at Louis’ reflection as opposed to the streets whizzing by outside. “I couldn’t...I clammed up. I couldn’t think straight.”

Louis glanced at him with confused eyes, completely unaware. “What  _are_  you talking about?”

Harry frowned. Wasn’t Louis upset with him? Hurt by the way he’d baulked in the conference? “I thought you were offended,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

“By what?”

Harry didn’t think it was wise to bring it up again. “If you’re not upset with me, why are you so quiet? You’re normally-”

“Loud?” Louis asked, smirking. There was no trace of the earlier upset in his eyes, only humour. Harry didn’t understand. He was convinced he’d seen the disappointment in Louis’ eyes earlier. Where was it now?

“Well, yeah,” Harry intertwined his hand with Louis’, seeking that extra touch. Harry’s large rings clashed with the small spaces between Louis’ fingers, but neither of them cared. Louis hummed with satisfaction at the gesture and tipped his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. They were both tired, and Harry knew Louis hadn’t slept well last night. He’d tossed and turned all night, muttering discontentedly into Harry’s chest. It wasn’t until Harry placed his hand on his leg, Louis’ knee hooked around Harry’s, that he’d finally quieted, though the small unconscious frown had remained on his face.

Louis shrugged. “I just...didn’t like that conference much.”

Now Harry was disappointed. Immediately, his mind rested on the audience, on the hundreds of Larry signs that had bobbed above their heads. In fact, now he thought about it, there weren’t many questions directed at Louis that weren’t involving Harry somehow. What Louis thought of when he looked at Harry, what Louis liked about Harry’s work, what Louis and Harry did in their free time. Harry was a little wary about the latter – playing it off as though they never did anything more than play Fifa and order room service, despite Louis giggling controversially throughout Harry’s answer. Harry had almost  _heard_  the echoes of Louis’ moans from earlier that morning in his mind then, of him keening Harry’s name when he came. It had been very hard to keep a straight face, but the weight of the cameraman’s gaze on his back had kept him from reacting, kept him from exposing the truth in the lie.

“You didn’t like the questions? Or the audience?”

Louis smirked knowingly. “I  _loved_  them. I didn’t like...having the others there, too, you know?”

“The other YouTubers?” Harry glanced down at his camera in his lap, using his jacket sleeve to wipe the view screen. It wasn’t the best form of cleaning – and Harry worried for a moment that he’d scratch it – but he didn’t have a screen-wipe on him and the dust was distracting. “I thought you liked them.”

“I do – well, I  _hate_  Sam,” Louis paused, trailing off. “It doesn’t matter.”

Harry looked up, hating the way he wasn’t surprised by Louis’ admission. Louis had cut ties with Sam, but it was slightly different hearing the distaste straight from Louis’ mouth. Just two nights ago they’d been all over each other, attending the after-show party and flirting outrageously beforehand. What had happened since then? Harry opened his mouth to ask but the escalade pulled up outside the hotel, and he stopped, not wanting to bring up a sensitive subject around Louis’ small crowd of fans.

 

-*-

 

As soon as Louis managed to unlock the door of their hotel room, he ran to the bed and face-planted it, groaning loudly. “Don’t make me move again,” he wailed, slamming his limbs into the mattress like a four-year-old having a tantrum. “I won’t do it! I’m tired!" 

Harry spoke, his voice fond. “That’s fine. You can sleep until the show.” Louis couldn’t see his face – he was too pressed into the bed to look – but he could imagine that Harry’s green eyes were alight with affection. And that – that was alright. Louis wasn’t used to affection, but it felt good. Especially from Harry.  “I’m going out anyway,” Harry continued nonchalantly.

Louis’ stomach dropped. Alone in this hotel room? That wasn’t an option. He rolled over, scrunching his nose up distastefully. “Where?”

Harry strode over to his equipment and crouched beside the bags, sorting through them with an efficient manner. Louis admired his back; he loved the way Harry’s hair curled at the nape of his neck. He could imagine that no matter how long Harry’s hair got, it would always have that strange flick to it. It was endearing somehow.

“I have a client scheduled.”

“You’re a prostitute on the side?” Louis quipped, eyebrows raised.

Harry blushed, backhanding Louis’ thigh playfully without looking at him. “Lou, shut up.”

“You  _are?”_  Louis gaped, unable to contain his grin. “Why didn’t you say so? We could have had so much fun!”

Harry stopped and swivelled to face him. There was something in Harry’s eyes, something that told Louis he hadn’t missed his outrageous comment. “I have a boudoir shoot scheduled in half an hour.”

Louis blinked. “A boo-de-what-what?”

Harry burst out laughing, throwing his head back as racks of inconsolable hysterics shook his shoulders. He covered his mouth with his hand, blushing, but the laughter didn’t stop, and he had to bury his head into his unused pillow to quiet himself. Louis couldn’t help it; he giggled too. There was something so childish about Harry’s laugh, about the self-conscious way he tried to staunch it.

Harry stood, throwing his camera strap over his head with practiced precision. He yanked a satchel over his shoulder, the weight of it making him stumble clumsily, and then held up two lenses, squinting with an expert eye. Louis swallowed, watching the muscles ripple under his shirt as he moved. Harry took a deep breath in, calming his erratic movements, and then exhaled, eyes still narrowed with thought.

Louis couldn’t fathom it - how could someone so gentle be so manly at the same time? Louis had seen this guy drunk, seen him prance around like a fairy, stick his tongue out, make little paper flowers and put them in Louis’ hair. He’d seen him like that. If Louis didn’t know better, he’d say this Harry was a completely different person. But there was still the familiar kind smile, the patience in his eyes, the little things that told Louis that Harry would never change – that he was who he was and that was it.

Louis sat up, leaning on his elbows. “You’re leaving now?”

Harry nodded, not taking his eyes off the lenses in his hands. His fingers seemed to wrap around them. He had large hands, Louis thought, smirking to himself. He should know. “It’ll take me five minutes to walk to the studio – I have to at least attempt to set up before they arrive.”

Louis’ lips flattened into a line. “What have you got to do?”

“A boudoir-”

“That doesn’t tell me what it is, Haz,” Louis waved him off impatiently. “Anyone can speak French – well, except me. I don’t know what it  _means_.”

Harry cast him a withering look. “It’s a woman’s bedroom shoot. My sister’s best friend booked a slot with me for her cousin’s eighteenth birthday. There’s a special studio that caters for bedroom shoots – it’s where I’m going.”

Louis didn’t like the sound of that. He really didn’t like the sound of that. “Bedroom as in?”

“As in lacy lingerie and provocative poses, yes.” Harry’s tone was impatient; Louis knew it was because he didn’t like explaining his work. It was something that was private to Harry, something that he was so knowledgeable in that he almost expected everyone else to know, too. Like it was general knowledge. It wasn’t arrogance – just a thing that Harry did. “A sex shoot-”

“Okay, I’m  _definitely_  coming with.” Louis said, gritting his teeth. He hauled himself to his feet, striding to his duffel bag to change his jacket.

Harry seemed faintly amused. “I thought you were gay.”

“One hundred percent,” Louis said shortly, jaw flexing. There was no way he was happy with Harry going off to shoot some hot, nude chick. Especially if it meant he’d leave Louis back here alone. He couldn’t imagine how Harry would conduct himself in the shoot – would he be turned on by the girl? Would he try and manoeuvre her into a light that would make him hot and bothered? Louis hated the thought. “I can vlog,” Louis continued simply. “It can go on tonight’s video.”

Harry groaned. “No way,” he objected. “I have to protect my client’s privacy, Lou. Not happening.”

Now it was Louis’ turn to give him a withering look. “Who said anything about getting her in the video at all? I’m not interested in her.” He strode to the door, yanking it open for Harry. “Chop, chop, babe. We’re going to be late.”

“If you’re not interested in her, why...” Harry shook his head, exasperated, and let out a surrendering sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Louis grinned, victorious. The two of them headed out – leaving through the kitchen’s exit to avoid being caught up in the fans outside. Louis felt a little bad; he really hated duping his viewers like this, but Harry had this determined frown set between his eyes – he really didn’t want to be late. Apparently, it impacted his professionalism. Louis doubted that, but then he wasn’t really professional himself to be honest.

They were two minutes away from the studio when Louis spotted them. One pap strolling beside the cosmetic store in what would have been a nonchalant manner if wasn’t for the way his camera was clicking manically at them. There was another one up ahead, crouching beside a bin to try and catch them unawares. Louis stepped closer to Harry, frustrated.

“Don’t look – but there’s a paparazzo to your left and another at roughly ten o’clock.”

Louis watched the muscle in Harry’s jaw flex. Based on the glare he was giving the world, he was not impressed. Louis felt a thread of sympathy. Harry wasn’t used to this. Sure, Louis wasn’t either – but Louis was used to attention, to people constantly being around him. Harry wasn’t, and Louis was overcome by a wave of protectiveness. He wanted to shove the paps away, tell them to leave his Harry alone. Instead, he touched Harry’s elbow gently, hoping to offer his support through the contact.

“Low-lives,” Harry grumbled. “I only want to do my freaking job. You don’t think...you don’t think they’ll follow us  _into_  the studio, do you?”

Louis shook his head. “Not allowed,” he said firmly. Then he gave Harry a conspiratorial nudge and whispered “Your outfit game is strong, Styles. They won’t have a bad thing to say about you. You look hot as fuck.”

Harry nudged back, blushing furiously, but then he sidestepped away from Louis, and a shadow passed over his face. “Shut up,” he said mildly, and though Louis was surprised by the withdrawal of contact, he was glad that there was no hostility in his voice. He grinned, hiding his mouth behind his sleeved hand, and they walked up the street.

Louis almost took a wrong turn, expecting to turn left at the end of the road, but Harry’s arm darted out at the last minute, balling Louis’ shirt at the small of his back into his fist as he guided Louis away, unable to contain his humoured smile. Louis pulled an apologetic face, and they entered the studio. Louis didn’t know how he’d missed the sexy, suggestive sign, but he had – and he couldn’t help but feel slightly worried by the constant clicking behind them as they entered the building. He could only imagine the headlines they’d be creating.  **Louis Tomlinson in for a treat? He’s seen entering a boudoir studio with rising photographer Harry Styles.**

 _Well, let them assume what they want,_  he thought irritably.

Louis knew this shoot was more expensive than Harry had originally let on. He realised this as soon as they stepped into the entrance lobby. Everything was beautiful – luxurious sashes of velvet, black and violet walls crested with white, elegant trims. The lighting was dim, the music seductive. If there was any place on Earth that could turn a gay man straight it was here – there were more pictures of scantily clad women on the walls than any porn magazine Louis had ever picked up. And he’d picked up a  _lot_  – admittedly male mags, but still.

Harry didn’t care for the surroundings, Louis noticed. At least he looked like he didn’t. Judging by the way he strolled straight through the entrance lobby into the main studio without a care for the multiple women on the walls, he couldn’t be less interested. Louis let himself feel smug at that – his Harry wasn’t interested in these women.

Louis didn’t say anything for a while – though he had tons of questions. For a moment, Harry was all Louis saw, even as they stepped into the most lavish room Louis had ever seen. He just watched as Harry spread his equipment on the floor. There was something about Harry when he was deeply immersed in photography. There was something about the firmness of his shoulders, the strong set of his jaw. He looked fucking delicious, but also very much in control. This was one of the only times Harry seemed to get that feeling, Louis observed. That feeling of strength and control and power.

Louis tore his gaze away from him. The studio was...well, Louis wouldn’t want to be caught in here; just the bed was making him blush. It was a four-poster king size bed with heavy duvets and thick, feather-filled pillows. Those umbrella-things-that-Louis-didn’t-know-the-proper-name-of were planted calculatedly around the room, shining brightly. It looked like a bedroom, but of Hollywood calibre. The kind where seriously kinky stuff went down, Louis thought.

“Harry!”

Louis looked up. A young guy – not much older than them – had appeared through one of the side doors. He looked nice; he was all dimples and maturity lines and a puppy-eyed-smile. His jaw was smattered with dark facial hair, and his brown eyes shone with friendliness. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, ruffling a hand through his curls, and Louis felt a little put out when they started chatting seamlessly. He puffed his chest out, trying to take up more room to gain some attention.

“I’m Louis,” he interrupted loudly, sticking his hand out. “Harry’s collab partner.”

“Great,” the guy responded warmly, his gaze turning to Louis instantaneously. “I’m Liam; Harry and I share a dorm at the Uni halls.”

“He has a part-time job here,” Harry explained. “He’s doing the same course as me – he’s a great photographer.”

Louis had to admit that for Harry to say that about Liam, it had to be true. Harry didn’t often disclose fellow photographers’ skills. Louis watched the way Liam and Harry interacted carefully, jealousy threatening to worm its way into his gut. He knew he didn’t have to worry – Harry didn’t look at Liam with half as much affection and light as he did when he looked at Louis – but still, he was kind of annoyed that Liam wasn’t fawning over  _Louis_  and lathering him in attention. He supposed Liam was the kind of guy who wasn’t impressed by statuses and fame, but rather the quality of a person. Louis grudgingly respected him for that.

“Alright, mate,” Liam said, gesturing towards the side door. “I’ve left ProShoot open for you to edit your stuff in the viewing room. Also the light panels are set at default for you - switch and change as you please. Oh, and the owner asked us not to alter the settings on the reflectors. Kind of a pain in the ass to reset them afterwards.”

Harry nodded, serene and assertive – somehow all at once. “I don’t need to change the reflectors anyway – they’re fine for what I’m doing.”

“Great!” Liam clapped Harry on the shoulder again, pulling him in for a hug. He was a gentle person, Louis thought, but not as gentle as Harry. Louis shook Liam’s hand. “I’m off; I’ve got to make it back for the three o’clock seminar. Nice to meet you, Louis.”

Louis nodded, reaching into his own bag for his Go Pro vlogging camera. He set it up quietly, content to listen to Harry’s steady breathing in the silent room. He couldn’t help but steal a glance at him; he was crouched on the ground, sketching onto some paper. Upon closer inspection – albeit secret – Louis realised he was plotting out poses, scrawling out numbers and angles and settings in the margins of the page. When he caught Louis looking, his eyes flashed with disapproval and he stood, lips pursed, and strode over to the umbrellas, adjusting their settings and angles. Louis didn’t understand any of it, even as Harry muttered to himself under his breath – honestly, the whole photography thing was like a different language. Still, he admired Harry’s knowledge, admired how fucking attractive he was when he held control the way he did when he was around cameras.

When the client eventually arrived, Harry took her in a side room to discuss his plans for pictures. Louis was left to entertain the sister who’d come with her – which wasn’t particularly fun. She was cold and abrasive, and hardly ever laughed at Louis’ quips. If he was honest, he found himself almost wishing he’d gone with Harry into the side room, but by the warning look Harry had shot his way when he tried, he knew that wasn’t an option.

“Okay, so if you want to get on the bed,” Harry’s voice echoed into the room and he wandered in a few seconds later, the client in tow. She’d changed and – bloody hell, even Louis could appreciate how plump her tits were...and he was  _gay_. She was dressed in some black laced stockings and a matching bra, but her briefs were stark white. “We’re going to try and work with your face first – once we’ve got some close-ups, we’ll open the shots to the rest of your body. Try and work with some landscape orientations, I reckon.”

The woman was definitely not shy. In fact, she was the most shameless flirt Louis had ever come across. She fluttered her lashes in Harry’s direction so often that there was a wonder they hadn’t all fallen out. Bloody woman. Louis would have been worried if it wasn’t for the way Harry really wasn’t paying her that much attention. His touch was entirely clinical – even as he adjusted her thigh on the mattress, fingers pressing into the inside of her leg – and he withdrew quickly, not lingering for more than a second. He didn’t pay any attention to her suggestive remarks about getting  _him_  on the bed with her, nor the comment about how she was sure he’d be a perfect Calvin Klein’s model. Louis cleared his throat at that, beyond pissed. The accuracy in her judgment be damned – though Louis would  _love_  to see Harry model Klein...preferably with the underwear around his ankles – she couldn’t just get away with saying that to him.

“Okay, can you open your mouth a little – pout a bit?” Harry asked, squinting through his camera which was set on a tripod in front of the bed. “Get them wet – I think a little shimmer maybe – that’s right, like that. Yeah.”

The girl giggled and flashed him a wink, shifting her chest on the bed so her breasts spilled out. Louis gritted his teeth.  _Shameless_ , he thought disgustedly.  Vlogging forgotten, he couldn’t focus past the girls’ clear infatuation with Harry, and how insecure it made Louis feel. Sure, Harry wasn’t his – wasn’t anybody’s, really – and the thing he shared with Louis wasn’t exclusive. But still, there was a sadistic satisfaction deep in Louis gut when he noticed that Harry was totally unruffled – he wasn’t even half-hard – despite the semi-naked woman baring her breasts to him. Louis remembered how quickly Harry had been hard for  _him_. Louis definitely had the upper-hand. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Spread your legs – a little bit more than that...” Harry advised coolly, clicking the shutter once more. The flash went off, almost blinding Louis, and Harry frowned, stepping back. He stared at the umbrellas for a moment, then back to the viewfinder on his camera to observe the last picture. “Lights,” he muttered to himself, and he stalked off to the nearest one to adjust it.

Louis was beyond bored and he craved Harry’s attention the way a child craved their favourite toy. It had been too long since Harry had even looked in his direction. He took out his phone and sent Harry a text:  _Bet you want me to spread my legs for you. ;)_

Louis watched as Harry dug his phone out of his pocket distractedly when it pinged. He glanced down at the screen and his lips parted with shock. Louis would have laughed, if it wasn’t for the way his head snapped up to Louis, eyes dark with a mixture of disapproval and longing and – oh God, the lack of attention until now was totally worth  _that_  heady look.

Louis kept his expression nonchalant, but his insides were squirming.

“I know the game you’re playing,” Harry said quietly when he walked beside Louis to adjust the umbrella nearest to him, his voice gravelly and low. “You’re sulking because I haven’t spoken to you all afternoon. I’m at work, Lou. Remember that.”

Louis’ stomach twisted. There was something so fucking hot about the passion in his eyes, warring with his control. Every muscle in Harry’s body was visibly tense, and he was careful not to brush Louis’ legs as he walked past him to get back to his camera. There was almost too much self-restraint in his aura, like he was close to snapping at any moment. He kept his gaze away from Louis, fixed on the girl.

Well, now, that just wouldn’t do.

When Harry’s camera started making those irritating clicking sounds again, and the girl was back to her flirtatious remarks, and the sheets on the bed were rustling with her every movement, Louis sent out another text.

_Wonder if those bedposts can hold out for handcuffs._

Harry stopped, checked his phone, swallowed, and pocketed it.

 _You’d like that, wouldn’t you,_ Louis wrote. C _ontrolling me. I know you would._

Harry didn’t check his phone for another few positions, and Louis was starting to sulk again, annoyed that Harry wasn’t even thinking about him as he took shots of this ridiculous woman – “Just arch your back a bit – higher, I want to see your stomach; it’s all about the stomach, here,” or “Can you lift up your hips off the mattress – think it would be good to show those curves in this shot – yeah, like that, look at me, sweetheart – thank you. Good shot. That was a good shot.”

It didn’t matter how many times Harry called the girl ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’ or ‘pretty’ or ‘honey’, she was never beautiful. He never called her beautiful.

Harry had called Louis beautiful.

Harry checked his phone after he had the girl hooking her legs around the bed post. Louis watched his reaction carefully. The phone had been pinging periodically over the last ten minutes and each time, he’d seen Harry’s finger twitch impatiently against the camera. It was like he wanted to check it, but he was holding back.

While Harry was still reading his text, Louis sent another one.

_You’d like to take pictures of me on that bed._

The phone chimed. Harry bit his lip, exhaling loudly, muscles tense. “Stop distracting me.” Though his tone was definitely low and persuasive – demanding, almost – there was also a quiver in his words, a quiver of weakness that told Louis he’d definitely gotten to him.

Louis crossed his legs, pressing his hand down over his crotch. He tapped his fingers against his tracksuit-covered cock three times, teasing. He knew Harry saw the subtle movement – he could see it in the way Harry jerked slightly, his eyes resting on Louis’.  _Fuck,_ Louis thought, seeing the desire churning in his green eyes.  _He’s actually turned on._

“What?” The girl asked, thinking Harry was talking to her. “I’m not saying anything.”

Harry blinked, all hint of frustration and desire wiping blank from his face as his gaze slid to her. “I didn’t say anything,” he responded evenly, shrugging slightly. “If you’d like to change into your second outfit – I’ll be back out in a moment to take your secondary shots.”

Harry waited until the girl had dragged her sister to the changing room before he lunged for Louis, fingers encircling Louis’ wrists, and he pulled him into the side room Liam had earlier emerged from. The door slammed shut and before Louis could react, Harry had him pinned against the wall, hands pushing against wrists, and his knee was planted between Louis’ legs.

“What part of ‘I’m at work’ do you not understand?” He asked, voice low but not hostile. Harry could never be hostile, even when he was frustrated. “I asked you not to distract me.”

“I distracted you?” Louis responded innocently. There was something amazing to be said about Harry in this state. He’d had so much control over his work – his entire word was followed to the mark. What position the girl was in, what camera was used, even the colour of the sheets on the bed. Everything in this studio was Harry’s doing – it was perfect. Louis recognised that, recognised the control Harry had exercised over everything. He’d rather enjoyed ruining that – seeing him flustered and powerless, pink lips slick with saliva, flush building in his cheeks, green eyes glassy and blurred. That was Louis’ doing and he was perfectly fine with that, thank you very much.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry closed his eyes, exhaling weakly. “I need to have...power over this. It’s the only thing I have. Don’t ruin it for me.”

“I’m not ruining anything,” Louis protested softly. He held his breath and let it out when Harry looked away. “But I was right, wasn’t I? You’d like to do that to me – have me down on that bed.  _Your_  way.”

Harry made a noise of utter frustration, meeting his gaze once more, and then his lips were on Louis’, grip tightening, and Louis was kind of lost in the way Harry kissed him – hard and forceful and ardent. Like fire extinguished with a mist of foam, Louis relaxed, complying – yielding to Harry. He’d never done it before, given someone that ultimate power over a situation, but he gave it to Harry. Entirely, wholly.

Harry seemed to know when Louis went pliant; he groaned into Louis’ mouth, teeth grazing, and his hands released Louis’ wrists to run over his body. Harry’s touch was just – fuck, it was out of this world. Louis’ body reacted to him instantly, lips parting for Harry’s tongue, hips angled against his. Harry’s hand framed the back of Louis’ neck, the other reaching for his ass. Harry had never touched Louis’ ass before – he’d been close, but never actually gone there. He did now; his hand squeezed, nails digging in.

Louis couldn’t help the way he gasped into Harry’s mouth. “Shit,” he breathed, as Harry pulled him closer, until their cocks were rubbing up against each other through their trousers, and Harry was still squeezing him and kissing him and grinding and – bloody hell, Louis had never felt so overwhelmed.

For some reason, Louis felt compelled to say something. “You never called her beautiful,” he whispered against Harry’s lips, mouth colliding with a fervent, thrilling mix of passion and tenderness. “Ever – you never said it once.”

“And?” Harry’s grip on Louis’ ass tightened. Louis suddenly wished he wasn’t wearing his tracksuits, wasn’t wearing his boxers, anything. He wanted skin on skin, more. He wanted Harry.

“And you only take pictures of beautiful things.” Louis had to concentrate on what they were saying – and suddenly he regretted bringing it up at all. Why couldn’t he just shut up and kiss Harry the way he so desperately wanted to?

“My definition of beautiful is changing,” Harry replied – there was still so much dominance in his voice. “How can I call her that when you’re sat in the same bloody room?”

Louis’ breath caught in his throat. He was hard now, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sort himself out here. If the paparazzi were lurking outside for them, he was going to flip his shit. The last thing he needed was pap shots of his hard on circulating the media tomorrow.

“You didn’t even look at me.”

“I didn’t look  _away_  from you,” Harry corrected, running his mouth over Louis’ throat. Louis arched his neck to give him better access, pulse jumping as Harry’s teeth scraped gently at his skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis breathed when Harry rocked up against him – he could feel Harry’s erection straining through his jeans. How did they get like this? From being nothing but drunken strangers to desperate lovers? When did Harry accept that he wanted this? When did Louis feel this fucking much for Harry? It was a confusing mess, and not one Louis wanted to delve into now.

Louis’ fingers raked Harry’s chest through his shirt and Harry responded by squeezing Louis’ ass cheek, hard. Louis moaned as the sensation shot straight to his groin and his lips parted, panting softly. Harry took advantage of that – mouth sliding lazily against Louis’ until they were just exchanging each other’s air, lips pressed tightly, warmth spreading with every touch. “You fucking twat,” Louis muttered into Harry’s mouth. “You fucking  _know_  what you do to me. You’re a twat.”

Harry smiled against his mouth. “It’s a shame we’re scheduled out tonight, Lou,” he breathed, and Louis couldn’t stop the tremble from running down his spine. He almost groaned at Harry’s words – this boy was a tease. What the fuck did he mean by that anyway?

Louis’ thought was proven when Harry pulled back, running a hand through his hair. The quiet sounds of the girls talking echoed in the main studio room next door, reminding Louis that they were probably long since changed, waiting impatiently for Harry – their gloriously hot photographer – to return.

Louis and Harry stood there for a moment, catching their breath, cheeks flaming and lips swollen and hair a tousled mess. Harry’s eyes were more focused now – his gaze flitting over the features of Louis’ face thoughtfully. Louis didn’t say anything, just panted softly, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.

“Don’t distract me again,” Harry whispered. “Just – I can’t. Distract me, later, okay?”

Neither of them bothered to mention that no matter how quiet Louis was for the rest of the session, Harry was already distracted – and probably unable to return to concentration any time soon.

Harry took a step towards the door, hand on the knob. So many comments, quips and remarks rested on Louis’ tongue, desperate to be said, but it all went away when he thought of what Harry was heading out there to do.

“Haz?”

Harry glanced at him questioningly.

“Don’t...don’t listen to her flirting, yeah?” Louis said it casually, as though it meant nothing to him. But the jealousy was eating him up inside, burning. Why did she get more of Harry’s thought than Louis did? It wasn’t fair. “She...she’s trying to get your attention.”

“When I think of this boudoir shoot,” Harry responded slowly, “the very  _last_  thing I think of is her valiant attempts of flirting.”

“The first?” Louis asked, finally regaining his breath.

Harry didn’t even hesitate. “Your smart mouth.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Louis loved watching Harry. There was something about the way his eyes lit up when he observed something beautiful, the way his nostrils flared and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the way he seemed to totally freeze, as though the allure of it completely took his breath away, the way the delighted spark in his green eyes seemed to converge with absolute focus until he was just overwhelmed by the beauty of it, until it was clear on his face that there was no place he’d rather be than right there, concentrating entirely on that very thing – in this case, the premiere. From the red carpet, to the massive movie poster, to the endless stream of celebrities strutting their stuff. It was all a bit stuffy and formal for Louis, but sure, he could see the appeal.

Louis had been subjected to an endless – but also rather adorable – babble from Harry’s end on their way to the movie premiere they were scheduled to attend tonight. Harry had run his fingers absent-mindedly over the back of Louis’ palm which rested on the inner seam of Harry’s suit trousers – riskily caressing his crotch – as he’d talked. Harry’d streamed constant nonsense about how amazing it was to watch movie premieres on TV, how he loved observing the striking suits and dresses, how he fantasised about all the actors on the carpet – Louis silently noted that Harry mentioned several  _male_  celebrities at this point, which was fine, of course; it only served to make Louis flare with pride and fondness. Harry was much more comfortable admitting his attraction to men now than he had been four days ago.

Of course, for Louis, it was much better to hear Harry’s excited chatter than it was to hear his mumbling worries. Louis could see it though – in the set of Harry’s jaw, in the quick darting of his green eyes as they had approached the venue, in the constant quiver of his knee. Louis could see how goddamn terrified he was of this, of being in the limelight, of knowing that once he stepped out the escalade, his every move was documented and analysed by everyone.

It was this worry of Louis’ that had made it so much more pleasant when Harry completely lost that nervousness when he stepped out of the car. For sure, it was there. For the first ten minutes, Harry had barely uttered a word to anyone, though Louis had a sneaking suspicion that reaction had something to do with the way the host pretentiously announced them as  **“ _Most Talked About Stars of Arts’ Week, Internet Megastar Louis Tomlinson and Arts’ Celebrity Photographer Harry Styles!”_** Which, of course, had led to all eyes instantly resting on them, paparazzi screaming oppressive questions at them, movie fans wailing their names and waving desperately to gain their attention and, well, Louis couldn’t really blame Harry for retreating within. It was impossible not to feel completely overwhelmed.

But as the night wore on, and Harry actually made conversation with Louis for the first time that night, it was easy to see how much he was enjoying this.

“Oh, Jesus, this place is stunning.” Harry turned on his heel, taking it all in, eyes wide. He held his camera loosely in his hands – the SLR work-camera – and he occasionally lifted it to take pictures of the carpet, of the golden decorations hanging from the light-posts. He took photos of the movie stars too, and Louis was sure he’d heard Harry mutter something like “he’s so pretty,” about the male lead. Louis had felt particularly torn then – torn between fond pride and jealousy. Still, the other celebrity  _wasn’t_  beautiful. Louis was.

Harry looked so innocent, so child-like in his awe that Louis had grinned at him, humming in assent. He’d actually spent most of the night admiring Harry’s hair which – damn – it was on  _point_. Slicked back, but not to the extent that it looked greasy or cheap, it fell around his head in silky, luxurious waves almost like a halo, and Louis had never been a man with a great taste for hair, but suddenly he wanted nothing more than to run his hands through it, use it to tug Harry’s mouth to his. It was a temptation, and one he didn’t succumb to – for Harry’s sake, anyway.

“You seem partial to the fairy lights, Haz,” Louis noted, leaning in conspiratorially to say the words. He could hear the cameras around them snapping, shutters going wild, and he knew they’d make an appearance in the media the next morning. It seemed as though they never had a moment’s peace. “You’ve taken about four pictures of those.”

“I can’t help it,” Harry moaned. “They’re just – ugh, they’re amazing.”

Louis grinned. In his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate, and he glanced around to check that they weren’t immediately needed for an interview or anything before he pulled it out. It was a text message from his agent.

_I know you’re having fun, but we really need to discuss the implications of your actions._

Attached was a screenshot of an online article. Louis pulled the picture up on his screen, scanning it with narrowed eyes.

**London’s celebrity power couple Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles step out looking frankly delicious as they both head to a rather racy photoshoot – But what _is_  going on behind closed doors?**

Sure enough, a picture of Louis and Harry was pasted beneath the title; a snap of the two of them heading to the boudoir shoot earlier that day. Irritatingly enough, they’d captured the moment Harry had steered Louis from taking a wrong turn off the street. Harry had his hands on Louis’ hips, and Louis was backing into Harry, eyes wide with confusion.  _So much contact_ , Louis thought, shaking his head. It was an inaccurate representation of what had really gone down. He heard Harry’s words in his head:  _It’s false – fabricated, even._

Louis had to admit it felt like a violation – that really  _wasn’t_  how they acted outside closed doors. They didn’t, like, hold hands and touch each other and act all lovey dovey in public or whatever. That just wasn’t who they  _were_  and Louis was disappointed, almost, that this picture portrayed them that way. Louis read the beginning of the article, feeling oddly guilty.

_Louis Tomlinson is well known for his 7 million subscribers on YouTube and subsequent 5 million Twitter followers. The famous vlogger is well known in the Internet community and his work with several LGBT charities has not gone unnoticed. Openly and proudly gay himself, Louis has helped several people come to terms with their sexualities, but is rising celebrity Harry Styles the new hopeful to be taken under Louis’ wing? Is he next to come out?_

_The photographer was quick to deny gay rumours when asked a few days ago but has since instigated many rumours after being spotted perhaps kissing(?!) Tomlinson at a fashion show in London this week. After lucky snaps were taken of the two of them entering a sexy boudoir studio this afternoon, it is clear that the bond Louis and Harry share is strong, but what really is going on behind closed doors?_

_So, what do you think? Larry Stylinson a real thing? Or_ no way, _they’re totally just friends?_

_Scroll down for more._

Louis definitely didn’t want to scroll down for more. In fact, that ‘kissing’ pic was just a shot of Harry brushing away one of Louis’ lashes at the show the other night. It’s taken from an awkward angle and, well, okay, yeah, it really did look like they’re kissing in that picture, even though they really weren’t.

“What’s wrong?” Harry stepped closer to him, eyeing him inquisitively. Louis smiled slightly, somewhat pleased that Harry had noticed he was upset. “You’re frowning.”

Conscious of the many cameras trained on them, Louis did nothing but grin – all teeth – and offer Harry his phone. Harry glanced at it once and his lips flattened into a thin line. He pocketed Louis’ phone and the  _fucking idiot_  – what did he have to do that for? That was a really relationship-y thing to do; what business partner looks after the other’s phone? Idiot. Louis was sure the journalists would pick up on that, too. Harry looking after Louis’ possessions – like they were a married couple or something.

Louis would really like to ask for it back, but one of the actors just approached Harry, and he was striking up a conversation that Louis really would rather not interrupt. So he sulked, and as he did so, he spotted Eleanor on the other side of the red carpet, chatting animatedly with her collab partner Chloe. Louis made his way over to her.

“Louis!” Eleanor squealed and jumped on him, throwing her arms around his neck. Louis grimaced – Eleanor had always been a little too affectionate for his liking – but hugged her back, albeit awkwardly. He could smell the faint scent of flowers and alcohol around her and judging by her blown out pupils, she was already tipsy. Louis sighed, unable to contain his grin. He’d always admired Eleanor’s ability to have fun, even when working. It was something Louis sometimes forgot was necessary. Fun.

“Hey,” Louis muttered. “Harry’s busy so, like, I thought I’d say hi.”

Perhaps she picked up on the sour note in Louis’ words, but she grinned knowingly. “You jealous that Harry’s not always bothered about you all the time?”

“He’s always bothered by me,” Louis boasted quickly, puffing his chest out. “Just...you know, he’s shy, okay? So I thought maybe it would help his confidence if I left him to talk to the actor alone. It’ll make him believe in himself a bit more.”

Eleanor nodded, not looking as though she believed him one bit, and placed a finger to her crimson-slicked lips thoughtfully. “You know, the kid’s shy, but I’ll bet he has a fucking raging temper.”

“He rarely gets angry,” Louis supplied, contradicting, but Eleanor shook her head.

“No, I mean, like, he doesn’t lose it often, but when he does – it’ll be like  _snap_.” She clicked her fingers, the sound weirdly louder than Louis expected. “He’ll just go from being normal Harry to whoa-what-the-fuck blazing Harry. You see me?”

Louis glanced over at Harry, frowning. He could see it – kind of. Louis remembered how fiery he’d been earlier that afternoon when Louis had distracted him from his photoshoot. There was something in his eyes then – passion, maybe, or desperation – but it was probably akin to what Louis would see if Harry truly lost his temper. It was a loss of control that Harry probably wouldn’t know how to handle.  “You think he’d be aggressive?”

Eleanor shrugged, unperturbed. “I just don’t think you should get on the wrong side of him. I reckon he’s one of those people who don’t lose it...but when they do, they  _really_  freaking do.”

Louis made a sound of acknowledgement. He couldn’t comprehend Harry snapping like that. Like, he could imagine it happening and Harry just...completely losing it. But Louis couldn’t understand what could possibly do that to him. Make him lose all control like that – Harry was always so composed, even when he wasn’t sure what he was doing. Louis thought it’d take some serious shit to piss Harry off. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “I hope I never find out.”

Seamlessly, Eleanor changed the subject. “Have you told him yet?”

Louis didn’t even ask Eleanor what she was talking about; he just knew. He knew by the way his stomach dropped at her words, by the way his throat closed, almost inhibiting his speech. “No.”

Eleanor tutted, disapprovingly. “I’m giving you until the end of the week, Tomlinson. You mean a lot to him – it’d totally crush him if he had to find out something like that from me.”

“Why does he even have to know?” It wasn’t that Louis didn’t want to tell him, it was that he didn’t know how. Even telling Eleanor had been a massive blow to his pride, and he felt like it was just...the whole drama was just overrated. It was  _his fault_  – he’d practically asked for Sam to do that. He kind of wished he could just forget it ever happened, blot it out of his memory. Maybe that would help the sharp stab of pain he felt in his throat whenever he thought about it. He felt so shit about it, about himself because of it, that now he’d kind of just adopted a defensive approach.

Eleanor adjusted Chloe’s dress, a mothering look in her eyes. Chloe just let her, smiling in thanks. Eleanor didn’t look at Louis when she responded. “He nursed you through it-”

“I didn’t even need nursing,” Louis snapped. Really, he loved Eleanor – but like, he felt like she was crossing the line. It wasn’t her business to tell. Sure, he understood that she was doing this to help Louis make the right choice, to stop him making a mistake, but Louis just felt like she was inhibiting his freedom. She was controlling his choices, regardless of her thinly-disguised motivations.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Eleanor responded smartly, but there was a hint of sympathy in her voice. “Anyone who goes through that needs nursing, Louis. It’s non-consensual sex – it’s  _violating_.”

“Shut up,” Louis hissed, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. “Okay, fine, fuck, I’ll tell him before the end of this week.”

“Good. Because you owe him. You’re the luckiest shit alive to have him as your friend. You’re no saint, but you’ve scored one on your side.” Eleanor shook her head disbelievingly. “Dunno how you’ve done it, but you’ve got to work to keep it.”

Before Louis could even respond – like,  _what the fuck does that even mean?_  – Eleanor and Chloe were called by a media outlet, desperate for an interview. Louis huffed, letting out a long breath, and then made his way back over to Harry.

“So sorry to interrupt,” Louis said loudly, touching Harry’s bicep. He was kind of in a shitty mood now – all due to Eleanor’s utter, unquestionable  _kindness_  – and he knew the only remedy of that was to have Harry all to himself. Selfish, he knew, but Harry was Louis’...way of self-medicating. Harry was so amazing, so pure, so freaking attractive that he just blotted all the pain away. Until Louis could locate the alcohol – which he was desperately craving now – Harry was his best bet.

Harry looked startled by Louis’ intervention but he didn’t protest when the actor made his apologies and stepped away. Louis steered Harry further down the red carpet, gritting his teeth when the host intercepted them, guiding them to a journalist who practically squealed their names.

“Sit, sit, please, oh Gosh, you both look amazing-” The girl gushed, gesturing to two fold out chairs situated on the side lines of the red carpet. Odd place to host an interview, Louis thought, but he’d seen weirder things in this line of work.

Harry gestured for Louis to sit first, green eyes bright, and Louis grinned. There – he was starting to feel better already.

“Wow, you’re so charming, Harry,” the girl said, touching the tail of his jacket as he sat, as though she  _needed_  that contact. “I’m Natalie – so glad to meet you both. You two were on the top of my list of who I’d like to meet tonight!”

“Thank you.” Harry sounded so genuinely surprised, so grateful, but Louis found himself hating the way the girl’s – Natalie’s – hand rested on Harry’s knee.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about the actual actors? This is a movie premiere, after all,” Louis hadn’t meant to sound petulant but, well, if she would just move her hand and stop undressing Harry with her eyes – you know, that would be nice.

She seemed to hear his thoughts then, because her attention shifted to him. “Oh, but I’ve already met them!” She laughed – Louis failed to find what’s funny – and then her hand came down on Louis’ thigh, squeezing gently. Louis wasn’t very good at human contact with anyone except his family and, yeah, okay, Harry too. It just didn’t seem natural. Nonetheless, he refrained from flinching away and just smiled politely.

“So, you’ve done so much already this week – we’re almost five days in! What’s been your most favourite part of the week and why?”

Harry spoke up first – he’d started to lose that shyness, now. Louis was pleased that he was right – by letting Harry speaking with the actor alone, he’d gained a lot more confidence talking to these kinds of people. He was no longer that quivering wreck.

“I really enjoy seeing the different forms of art. It’s really beautiful seeing it all, like, come together. It’s all different but the same, you know?”

Louis couldn’t tear his gaze away from Harry’s mouth. The way his saliva-slicked lips wrapped around each word, over-accentuating each syllable, and the way he swallowed half-way between his sentence, as though to prepare himself for the second half. God, Harry was really getting beneath Louis’ skin.

And Natalie still had her hand on Louis’ fucking thigh.

“I really enjoyed the boudoir shoot Harry had booked for a client,” Louis told her, voice blunt. “I mean – I’m gay, yeah. You know, like,  _gayer than gay-”_  he was hoping she’d take a bloody hint – “but like Harry’s fantastic. He’s so talented and like, really knows how to work with people-”

“He’s charming, isn’t he?” Natalie fluttered her lashes at Harry, and Louis almost laughed when Harry didn’t even pay her any attention. No, his gaze was fixed pointedly on her hand resting on Louis’ thigh and fuck, Louis couldn’t quite comprehend the look of pure jealousy on his face. Was that for him? Was that how Harry felt?

Natalie seemed to see it, too. She withdrew, and Louis would have flexed his leg, relieved, if it wasn’t for the way Harry’s hand slid over his thigh, replacing Natalie’s, squeezing experimentally. Ah, that was nice. Louis knew exactly what Harry was doing – that he was making his mark, claiming Louis – but it was alright. Louis couldn’t describe the mellow feeling in his stomach.

“But...uh...yeah,” Louis couldn’t tear his eyes away from Harry’s hand on his leg. His fingers seemed to brush the inner seam of Louis’ suit trousers and bloody hell, if that wasn’t teasing, Louis didn’t know what was. “Harry’s beautiful,” he blurted.  _How irrelevant_ , he thought dryly. He tried to cover himself up. “He just pulls it out of the bag, you know?”

Harry was looking at him with some kind of weird frown on his face, and Louis was beginning to wonder if he’d ever get out of this interview at all.

 

-*-

 

“You want me to come to the party?” Harry asked sceptically. He adjusted his blazer around his shoulders a little more, letting it flow open instead of buttoning it. There was a whiny edge to Louis’ voice that Harry couldn’t place – desperation mixed with panic mixed with sheer want. “I don’t even like parties,” Harry continued.

Louis cocked his head to the side, blue eyes beseeching. His lip jutted out a little, slick with saliva, and Harry just wished he could tilt his head forward and meet Louis’ mouth with his own. But despite the premiere ending an hour ago, there were still a few photographers around, a few minor celebrities, and hundreds of loud fans. Harry was kind of hoping Louis and him could go back to their hotel now – now that the movie had ended, half the cast was gone and their obligation to be there was over – but Louis was apparently desperate to attend to other plans.

“Please, Harry,” Louis mumbled, clearly too proud to outright beg. He ran a hand through his tousled hair; the night’s breeze kept brushing his fringe in his eyes and Harry could see Louis was getting increasingly annoyed with it. “I just want someone to be there in case...in case something goes wrong.”

“Why would anything go wrong?”

Louis didn’t say anything, didn’t even meet Harry’s gaze. He just shuffled his foot, cleared his throat over-excessively and said, “Just...please?”

Harry sighed. “You want me to stay sober?”

Now Louis rolled his eyes. “Oh, come  _on_ , don’t act like that’s going to be some major feat for you. It took me three hours to convince you to have more than one beer the first time we met, remember? You don’t like drinking.”

Harry shrugged. It was true; drinking gave him a massive headache and he hated how out of control he felt of his own body. Nonetheless, he couldn’t really deny Louis some fun – and if he wanted Harry to be there to look after him, well, it was better than staying at the hotel alone.

“You can, though,” Louis piped up again. “Drink if you want. Like, I don’t give a shit if you get drunk – we can take care of each other, then.”

Harry placed his hand on Louis’ shoulder, steering him to the nearest escalade. “The things I do for you...”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm soooo sorry it's taken me so long to update - to apologise, here's two chapters!!

So Harry wasn’t really sure whose fault it was that he was leant against the bar idly, watching Louis dance with some guy from afar. Harry had one beer in his hand; all of Louis’ empty shot glasses seemed to line the bar behind him. Well, Harry had said he would look after him, but he wasn’t going to  _baby_  him. Louis was twenty four years old, for Christ’s sake. He was perfectly capable of figuring out his tolerance levels for himself. Admittedly, it seemed like a  _lot_ , but still.

Harry watched Louis, unable to look anywhere else. He wasn’t what he’d consider the jealous type – he rarely got angry or upset or frustrated whenever anyone he cared about interacted with someone else – but with Louis, it was different. Harry couldn’t explain the rising tide of possessiveness he’d felt within him when he’d seen that interviewer touch Louis’ leg like that earlier. It had been such an intimate touch, and Harry had felt like it was the kind of stroke that should be reserved for  _him_. He should be touching Louis like that. He wanted to.

He wasn’t jealous, really. But like, okay, maybe he was. A little.

But it was hard not to be when Louis just kept grinding his hips against that guy over there, head thrown back in bliss. Even from here, Harry could see Louis was half-hard, a small tent in his trousers. That guy gave that to him. That nameless guy. Him. Whoever he was.

All that mattered was that it wasn’t Harry.

And, wow, yeah, that hurt. It hurt more than Harry was willing to admit. He took a long drag of his beer, wishing he’d opted for something stronger. It sucked that Louis wasn’t dancing with Harry, that Louis had almost forgotten Harry existed. It hurt that Louis was so willing to throw himself at another guy to get worked up. Like, Harry knew they weren’t exclusive. So, what, they’d kissed a few times and Harry had helped Louis get off... _twice._ It wasn’t a big deal – he was sure loads of friends did it – but he was kind of hoping it meant something special to Louis, because it sure as hell meant something special to Harry.

Harry knew he was acting like a teenage boy. But he couldn’t help it. He was...he was pissed off.

Harry’s phone rang, and he took another sip of his beer, one last jealous glare at Louis and his  _new best friend_ , before heading out the front to take the call.

It was quite cold outside for a summer’s night, even for the early morning. It was crisp and clean and it smelled a little bit like rain. Harry scowled. He hated the rain.

Harry stepped under a lamplight, letting the dull orange glow bathe him in light. “Hello?”

“Okay,  _Harry Edward Styles_ ,” someone shouted. “You better tell me what the  _freaking hell_  these magazines are saying about my baby brother or I might come down to that hotel – whichever one you’re staying at – and whoop your ass.”

“Hi, Gemma,” Harry grumbled, leaning back against the streetlight. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” she said sarcastically. “Super. I mean, you, brother, don’t tell me shit and then you wonder why I get so worked up when I go to the supermarket to get some bread for my flatmate whose got a serious case of come-down munchies, only to find your freaking face over like...I don’t know...twenty different magazines? What the hell?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Gemma had always been one for theatrics. “What are they saying?”

“You tell me.” When Harry didn’t respond, she sighed, the anger audibly draining from her voice. Her tone was considerably smaller when she spoke again, as though she was doubting herself. “That you have a fling going on with your collab mate. Lewis, isn’t it?”

“Louis,” Harry corrected irritably. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. Louis could be...like...getting off to that other guy right now. It wasn’t a comforting thought. “And...no, I’m not with him.” He kind of felt bad lying to his sister – but it wasn’t a lie, was it? They  _weren’t_  dating. Sure, their relationship wasn’t entirely platonic, either. But Harry could just attribute that to confusion if Gemma found out. He could say he wasn’t sure what he was doing. It wasn’t the truth, of course. Well, the confusion bit was, but he knew perfectly well what he was doing. He’d come to terms with it; he was attracted to Louis. It wasn’t, like...no one had to make a big deal. It was just...a thing. No label. A thing.

“So why are they saying it?”

“Because he’s gay,” Harry explained. “Because he has this stigma attached to his image that, like, every person who comes within a five mile radius catches the gay disease from him. It’s stupid.”

Gemma seemed actually offended  _for_  Louis. “That’s really sick.”

“I know,” Harry said miserably. For some reason, he was almost close to tears. “He’s such a great guy as well, Gem. He really doesn’t deserve some of the backlash he’s getting. I saw some of it – I was getting breakfast while he was asleep – and I just...I didn’t think much of it. But then I keep seeing more on Twitter, when he doesn’t think I’m checking. Some of the stuff they say...it’s so horrible.”

“He’s a controversial celebrity, though,” Gemma said carefully. “Isn’t he? Like...his opinions always upset someone. I saw a headline describe him as Sass-linson. Sassy, you know? I’m sure he’s used to this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Harry sniffed, inhaling the night’s air. “Listen, I’m coming home at the end of this week. I want to see mum and Robin and Des...I miss you all.”

“That’s great,” Gemma’s voice brightened. “I’m going up tomorrow so I’ll already be there.”

Harry couldn’t explain the complete and utter relief he felt knowing that his sister was coming home too. He’d always been close with Gemma. They fought all the time, like any sibling did, but Gemma was always there whenever Harry needed her. Always. No questions, no judgments. Nothing.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said, foot tapping impatiently. His thoughts were on Louis, dancing with that stranger inside. “Um, don’t believe what the papers say. Louis says I’m like a celebrity now – I think it’s all a load of shit, to be honest. But um...they say stuff about me to try and provoke a reaction. Don’t believe it. Only believe what I say.”

“And what do you say?”

Harry hesitated. What did he say? He could just say it now...avoid all the drama he was likely to face when he went back home after this. But, what about when this week was over – when Louis didn’t have a contracted obligation to hang out with Harry anymore? Harry didn’t want to get himself in too deep. “I’m not dating Louis,” Harry responded slowly, his tone firm.

“You’re still straight?”

Ah, he really didn’t want to answer that question over the phone. “I’ve got to go,” he repeated evasively, ignoring Gemma’s noises of protest. “Love you.”

He hung up, feeling bile rise in his throat. He stared at his phone for what felt like ages, wondering if he was making the right choice. A chorus of laughter echoed outside from within the club, and Harry jerked. Louis. He couldn’t leave Louis alone.

He didn’t really have to worry, though. Louis was at the bar when Harry returned, necking down another vodka shot.

“How many is that?”

“Can’t remember,” Louis slurred, words barely formed from his slack mouth. Harry couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen the way Louis’ eyes had lit up when he saw Harry approach. It was kind of sweet, really. “But it feels so fucking amazing, Haz. You really need to drink because like, you’re fucking adorable when you’re drunk and I need niceness.”

“Right,” Harry waved his beer in Louis’ face. Louis squinted, eyeing it cautiously, almost as though he expected it would explode. It was a bloody  _beer_ , not a bomb. “I  _am_  drinking. But I’m not getting wasted.”

“Such a spoil sport.” Louis shook his head, pointing to himself with an air of importance that Harry would have found funny if it wasn’t for the stress he was feeling. “I, for one, am getting wasted. It’s rather fucking good, if I’m honest!”

“Why?”

“Helps drown the pain, young Harold. No regrets and all that shit.” Louis’ head sank down on the bar and he closed his eyes. “Need a good wank,” he admitted, the words barely a mumble. “That guy was a fucking tease.”

Harry swallowed. He knew what Louis looked like while he was wanking – flushed cheeks, bright eyes, wet lips. The image led to inappropriate thoughts about Louis’ cock and, well, Louis was completely-out-of-his-mind-drunk so following through on Louis’ desire probably wouldn’t end well for either of them. Taking his thoughts away from the image, Harry said “What pain do you have to worry about?”

“Pain?” Louis’ eyes flew open, confused, before comprehension dawned. “Ah,  _pain_. You know – like, feeling some weird shit for a guy who was supposed to be straight but then turned gay. Like a fucking test by the Gods, I swear. They’re trying to kill me. I’ll have you know I don’t feel like this for just  _anyone_ , Hazza. Ever. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em and all that – that’s what I live by. But, like,  _you_ , my friend-” he prodded Harry in the chest, his fist opening out to splay his fingers across Harry’s chest. His fingers clenched again, clutching desperately at Harry’s shirt. Harry reached up to take hold of Louis’ wrist, just lightly restraining him by his forefinger and thumb. Louis was unpredictable when he was drunk, and Harry didn’t want him to turn on him or anything.

“What about me?” Harry asked quietly, brushing his thumb over Louis’ wrist, tracing the encircling infinity rope tattoo. Louis swallowed; his gaze was fixed to Harry’s chest – he wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Just...like...you make me feel good,” Louis whispered. “Like I don’t have to be afraid anymore. Like I don’t have to keep pretending.”

Harry could tell Louis wasn’t really thinking about what he was saying. Alcohol rendered the filter between his thoughts and mouth void, and Harry quite liked Louis’ drunken confessions, thank you very much. He secretly suspected Louis liked them too; he wasn’t the type of guy to talk about his feelings whilst sober.

Harry frowned. What did Louis have to pretend about? “Pretending?”

Louis still didn’t look him in the eye; he just stared resolutely at Harry’s shirt. “To be like...invincible. Superman or something. Or iron man. Or Batman. Or like-”

“Superheroes,” Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. He touched Louis’ cheek gently, unable to explain the tightening in his chest. “I get it.”

Louis hummed, closing his eyes as he leaned into Harry’s touch. “I’m not used to it,” Louis slurred, lips skimming the heel of Harry’s palm as he spoke. “Feels weird. Liking someone for who they are instead of how big their cock is.”

It took every ounce of willpower for Harry not to choke. Instead, he let his lips curve up into a half-smile. “I like you for who you are,” he said, running his thumb across Louis’ closed eye. His eyelid fluttered beneath the gentle touch, and his other eye opened hazily, the blue in his gaze watered down by fatigue and drunkenness.

“That’s easy for you, Haz,” Louis stated matter-of-factly, voice sharper than before but no less drunk. “You’re gentle and you’re good and I bet it’s easy for you to love.”

“It’s never easy, Lou,” Harry swallowed, frowning, and shook his head. “Don’t say that. It’s never easy.”

Louis cleared his throat – Harry was starting to wonder if his voice was really getting better or if Louis was lying to him. He seemed to clear his throat  _all the time_. Louis grimaced, as though the sting was unexpected, and then clicked his fingers to gain the bartender’s attention. “Oi, mate, fancy getting me another one?” Louis asked, the words melting together until they were barely comprehensible.

“Pay up for the last lot and I might,” the bartender snapped back. Harry pulled a face, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Louis didn’t look in a fit state to have another one anyway.

“Here,” Harry said, handing over some money. “Keep the change and forget about getting him another drink.”

“Harryyyyyyyy,” Louis whined, blinking rapidly. “That’s not fucking fair. I need another one.”

“No, you don’t.”

Louis slumped, head hitting his forearms, resting on the bar. “But I haven’t forgotten yet, Haz. I haven’t forgotten. Will I ever forget?”

Harry froze. Louis suddenly looked so heartbroken, so completely crushed, his words a miserable echo of what he must feel inside. It reminded Harry of Tuesday night, when Louis had crawled into his bed with Harry and sobbed for hours. The resemblance between the misery Louis had felt then was uncanny to what he looked like now; his body was pliant and slumped – like he’d given up – and he was mumbling unintelligibly, lips clamped on his forearm to staunch the unconscious words. Louis blinked rapidly, his teeth sinking into his arm, and Harry couldn’t watch him do that to himself anymore.

“Hey, hey-” Harry lunged for him, pulling his head up by his chin. Louis met his gaze, looking very close to tears and Harry honestly didn’t understand how they’d gotten here – from Louis dancing flirtatiously with that stranger, to him lamenting silently in his own cocoon of grief. “Stop it. Stop biting – stop hurting yourself. What’s wrong?”

Louis blinked rapidly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. He was so very drunk, and Harry was grateful they didn’t have to be up super early in the morning – Louis was going to need to sleep this off.

“That guy asked me to give him head,” Louis jerked his thumb over his shoulder shakily, his words quiet and distorted. Harry followed his gaze, but the guy was long gone. Louis’ eyes watered, and his breathing quickened. “I wanted to...wanted to have some fun; I always do. But then I remembered what happened before and I just...I froze. ’S why I came over to find you when you went out. I couldn’t do it, I  _couldn’t_  – I couldn’t do it again. Oh, fuck, I can’t, Harry. I can’t do that again. I can’t feel that anymore...”

Harry pulled Louis closer, letting Louis cry into his neck. He rubbed slow circles into Louis’ back muscles, mulling over Louis’ words. Louis hiccupped, pressing his mouth to Harry’s neck to staunch his drunken cries. “You didn’t have to do it,” Harry said, letting his fingers ghost over the back of Louis’ neck. The older boy smelled strongly of alcohol, a sign of how much he’d drank. “You never have to do something you don’t want to.”

“It’s not always like that, though, is it?” Louis mumbled, the words broken by his bitter sorrow.

“What do you mean, Lou?” Harry pulled him back, trying desperately to understand. He brushed his thumbs over Louis’ cheeks, wiping away the drying tears. Harry hated how something so beautiful could also be so broken. He wanted to fix Louis, to find a way to make Louis happy again. Instead, he asked “What do you mean ‘it’s not always like that’?”

“You wouldn’t understand, would you?” Louis snapped, wiping angrily at his tears. Harry flinched from the vehemence in his voice but he understood that Louis was just acting defensive to hide his feelings. Even drunk, Louis was still  _him_. Hiding his vulnerabilities was just something Louis Tomlinson was very good at. Harry knew that. But still, the hostility in his voice  _hurt_.

“I-”

“No, Harry,” Louis pushed weakly at Harry’s chest. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t understand what it’s like to...fucking...put yourself on the line like that, to admit you like someone and then they go and like, do  _that_...fuck... _fuck_ , Harry. Harry, I can’t.”

Harry really didn’t like the feeling of dread that was pulsing in his stomach. What had gotten Louis into such a hysterical state? “What happened?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Louis mouthed, turning away from Harry in shame. Harry hated the way Louis looked at him, like he was terrified Harry was going to run away. “Sam,” he breathed again, audible this time, and Harry was just so  _confused_.

“What did he do?” Harry asked, squeezing Louis’ shoulder. It didn’t matter that they were in a half-crowded bar, that the music was almost drowning out their conversation. Harry was in tune with Louis and vice versa; they heard each other well enough. “Louis, what did Sam do?”

“He...we went into a bathroom at the last party – you know, to have some fun.” Louis groaned. “I shouldn’t have done it; it’s all my fucking fault. I’m such a twat. I asked for it. I asked for the pain.”

Harry didn’t know what to focus on in Louis’ words, didn’t know how to react. “What then?” He kind of felt like he was dredging blood from a stone, but that was alright. As long as it enabled him to understand Louis’ misery, to share it with him, to take the burden off. “After you went into the bathroom?”

Louis hiccupped again, pressing his hand against his mouth. “Probably gonna be sick,” he muttered. “Feel like it.”

“Louis.”

Louis didn’t look at him. He stared at the empty shot glasses on the bar, twirling one of them around his finger shakily. “He...he was an asshole about it. Making out that my ridiculous crush on him was...well, he wanted me to blow him.”

“Did you?”

Louis nodded numbly, clearing his throat. Honestly, it was becoming a nervous habit and – oh.  _Oh_.

Harry remembered Louis coming back that night, unable to speak through a damaged throat, remembered the tears running down his face. He remembered how Louis had sobbed brokenly for hours, how he’d clutched desperately at Harry, mumbling how much he craved gentleness, how much he needed Harry’s kindness. Harry remembered the way Louis had sat in the middle of the room when he’d come back with breakfast, remembered the way Louis had flinched away from his touch, as though he was afraid of Harry hurting him. He remembered Louis’ bruises. Bruises on his back and the welts on his scalp – from having his hair pulled? He could recall the way Louis seemed to recoil from everyone, withdraw on himself, the constant shadow of misery flaring in his eyes whenever he tried but failed to speak.

Oh, fuck.

“Did you want to?” Harry asked him, unable to understand how his voice was so calm and level considering the turmoil he was feeling inside. “Did you want to do that for him, Louis? Did you give your permission?”

Louis hesitated, biting hard on his lip. Harry could see he’d actually torn into it, and blood was leaking to the corner of his mouth. Harry wanted to wipe it away, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry breathed, begging him to respond. He needed to be reassured – that this wasn’t real. That Harry hadn’t sat by and let Louis deal with...with  _that_  alone.

“No.” Louis’ voice cracked and his shoulders shook with hysterical tears, incoherent words streaming from his lips, merging with his panicked sobs. “No. No. Fucking hell. No. I didn’t want to, but he made me – he fucking tore my hair out. Fuck, fuck. Harry, what do I do- I can’t-”

“Shit, okay, ssh,” Harry yanked Louis forward, probably a little rougher than intended, and he wrapped his arms around Louis’ shoulders, letting him cry into his shirt. Harry had never felt so stupid in all his life. It was all there, all the signs – he’d overlooked them all. He’d been so fucking stupid! Seething with anger at himself, at Sam, at the entire unfairness of it all, he pulled Louis to his feet, fingers lacing through his, and pulled him out of the chaotic bar. He hailed a taxi quickly, shoved Louis inside, and demanded that the driver take them back to the hotel.

 

-*-

 

Once Harry had opened the door, Louis ran straight for the toilet. Harry followed him quickly, barely having time to slam the door behind them before he could hear the sounds of retching echoing through the bathroom.

“Louis?” Harry strode into the bathroom, reaching desperately for the older boy. He was bent over the toilet, gagging uncontrollably, tears streaming, sobs warring with his need to purge the alcohol from his system. His entire body was trembling and Harry had never seen something so tragic in his entire life. Tears welled in Harry’s eyes, and he rubbed Louis’ spine, thumbs massaging circles into his tense back. “Let it all out, love. We can talk after.”

Louis turned his head to the side, staring at him blindly through his tears. His lashes were wet, blood and saliva coating his lips, and Harry felt his own tears slip down his face, burning the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis croaked when he saw Harry was crying. Louis turned away from him, as though he couldn’t bear to watch, staring at the bottom of the toilet without really seeing. He vomited again, the sound of gagging and liquid splashing into the toilet ringing around the room. Harry winced, but he was pleased to note that nothing much else was really coming up. At least Louis wouldn’t be too hung over in the morning, not if he was expelling the alcohol now. “’M such a fucking twat.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry growled. “No, you have nothing to apologise for, Lou.” Harry could see Louis’ dishevelled hair was sticking to his face and so he stood, squeezing Louis’ shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere – I’ll be back in a sec.”

Harry went back into the room and ruffled through his own duffel bag faster than he ever had before, messing up all the clothes he’d folded earlier that morning, and found the headband he was looking for. He jogged back into the bathroom and carefully coaxed the band over Louis’ head, tucking all his sweaty strays into it. Harry let his index finger stroke his clammy temple for a moment, before he sat down beside Louis, placing his hand on Louis’ thigh.

“You’re so gentle, Harry,” Louis muttered, closing his eyes as another tear slipped unbidden from his eyes. “I’ll never get over how gentle you are.”

“I’ll always be gentle,” Harry said, kissing the top of his head. “Always, Lou. I’ll never treat you the way he treated you. You’re too beautiful for that.”

Louis hiccupped. “Look at me now – picture of beauty, me.”

Harry grimaced, letting his fingers work into the tense muscles of Louis’ shoulders. Louis didn’t say anything and for a while, the two of them sat there in silence, Louis bent over the toilet bowl – spitting occasionally – and Harry watching him with sadness resounding through him. How could Sam ever hurt Louis like that? Why? How could he bring himself to be so cruel? Harry didn’t understand, didn’t understand how anyone could break someone like he had. Louis was so wild, so fun, so happy and eccentric and now...now he was damaged and hurt and broken. Harry wanted to wrap him up and keep him safe for the rest of his life. He wanted to constantly bring out the smile on his face, to make sure the tears went away for good. He just felt so helpless, like there was nothing he could do to chase Louis’ misery away.

After Louis had refrained from vomiting for twenty minutes, he cleared his throat. Harry winced. He really didn’t like the audible reminder that Sam had forced himself into Louis’ throat, the reminder of what Harry had so foolishly overlooked. He felt so guilty as it was, so responsible for this. If he had helped Louis from the very beginning, perhaps he wouldn’t feel like this now.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” Harry leaned forward to assess the emotions on Louis’ face. He saw embarrassment, desperation, need...hope?

“Do you think if I showered and brushed my teeth...do you think you’d kiss me again?” Louis asked softly. He was so hesitant, so hopeful...so unlike himself. The Louis Harry knew would tease him, likely make a joke out of kissing him but secretly enjoy it anyway. It was a testament to how knocked-down Louis was, how much of a blow he’d taken. “I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t want to...after...after hearing about Sam and me but like, I could really use some gentleness, right now.”

Harry smiled, pressing a kiss to Louis’ shoulder, the way Louis had done to him several times. “Of course,” he said softly. “Whatever you want, Lou, I want it too.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Louis felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Like he was floating – tethered, still, but floating. Throwing up the alcohol had served as a blissful remission of his drunkenness and Louis was sober enough to know his mind, his actions, his thoughts, but still influenced enough to not truly comprehend the consequences of what he’d done. Even as the water cascaded over his head, rinsing the tears, blood, vomit and alcohol down the drain, the worry of his drunken confession was almost completely eradicated by the thought that Harry was waiting out there – and he said he’d kiss him again. The bliss was winning out.

Louis didn’t think he’d ever showered faster in his life.

Call him pathetic, or immature, but Harry was a safe haven. He was – he was comfortable. He was harmless, dependable. He was Louis’ rock, his anchor, his only stability in his own wild, chaotic world. He was the one person Louis had ever met who Louis found himself constantly wanting to go back to. It was always Harry. Drawn like a moth to a flame – that’s what they were. Louis relied on Harry, needed him – though he really didn’t want to admit that to himself.

When Louis opened the bathroom door, a towel secured around his waist, he was surprised to find Harry was sat up in bed, frowning slightly, a small bottle passing between his hands as he examined it. Was that – was he studying Louis’ lube?

Despite Louis’ sheer exhaustion, he smirked, allowing himself to check Harry out – he wasn’t dressed in anything but his boxers, his glorious chest looking  _delicious,_ the skin of his stomach rippled where he was hunched over himself. “Reading the label, are we? I’ll have you know it’s water-based – I’m not a fan of oil-sourced and the silicone ones irritate my skin.”

Harry jumped, eyes wide, and then he dropped the bottle on the floor, a crimson flush rising in his cheeks. Louis smiled fondly as he scrambled over the side of the bed to pick it up and throw it back in the drawer like it burned. “I wasn’t – like, I was just interested, you know? Like,  _bloody hell_ , Lou,” Harry buried his head in his palms, but even his large hands couldn’t hide the flush that had crept up the back of his neck. “How are you feeling?” He mumbled, obviously changing the subject.

“Better.” Louis spoke firmly, a note of finality in his voice. Harry blinked, silently acknowledging that Louis really didn’t want to talk about it, and surprisingly, he obliged.

Louis approached Harry carefully, leaning down over the bed to plant a soft kiss to Harry’s sternum between the two tattooed birds. Harry let out a shaky breath, his chest quivering beneath Louis’ mouth. “It’s okay; being curious is okay,” Louis mumbled against his skin. He ran his thumb over Harry’s stomach, and it was so,  _so_  intimate. Just...this was good. Harry was confused and Louis was still getting over the aftershocks of his emotional night – and though the shower had done most of it for him, he still felt a little shaken. The two of them were a right pair, really.

Harry sighed, leaning back against the pillows. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, staring at the humming air conditioning fan. For a moment, it was the only thing that filled the silence. When Harry finally spoke, his words came out much slower than usual, riddled with hesitance. “Sometimes I feel like I know what I want and sometimes I just...get so lost in it all. I don’t have a clue of the first thing about being gay.”

The way he said it – so hopelessly sad – made Louis’ chest tighten. It was like he was giving up, like he thought he’d never be able to have that opportunity to explore sex with another man. Louis sat beside him, leaning forwards to let his lips caress the dips of Harry’s collar. Harry glanced down at Louis’ free hand, intertwined his fingers in his, and Louis sat back up again so that he could catch the emotions in Harry’s eyes. There was nothing to be seen of the Harry he’d seen at the boudoir shoot. Strange, how someone could put on a believable mask of control when they were surrounded by familiarity, but as soon as it became alien or strange, all confidence was lost. It was kind of sad, really.

“There’s no rule book about being gay, Harry,” Louis said solemnly, no trace of joking or amusement to be heard. “It’s not about liking dick or ass or whatever part of a male you find most attractive-"

“Your eyes. And you have a nice smile.”

Louis couldn’t help his grin. “And you are the  _cheesiest bastard_  I’ve come across in a long time...but that’s alright.” Louis squeezed his hand reassuringly, giggling under his breath when Harry let out a gasp of a laugh. “But it’s not about that, Haz. It’s about...like...appreciating another human being. It doesn’t matter if they’re female or male, really – I mean, probably helps if you’re attracted to them, too. But – fuck, I’m not good at explaining. You should just feel comfortable with them but  _not_  at the same time, alright? Let that guide you, don’t overthink it.”

Harry seemed to contemplate his words. “So would it be, like, very gay to kiss you right now?”

“Highly,” Louis commented, straight-faced. His index finger traced the pattern of Harry’s butterfly tattoo, carefully drawing its outline, relishing in the way Harry’s skin rippled with goosebumps at Louis’ touch.

“But if I want it?”

Louis tried not to show how worked up he was over the thought. He gave a casual shrug, lips pursed. “Acceptable.”

Harry grinned, a measure of newfound confidence warring with his sheepishness. “And if I wanted to pull your towel off?”

Louis tilted his head to the side, feeling the heat start to coil in his stomach at Harry’s words. He’d never had that happen before – never sat down and talked with someone and had  _that_  turn him on instead of the exchange of pure physical touches. It was hard to contemplate. “That, too.”

“What about if I wanted  _you_  to touch  _me?”_

Louis stilled, swallowing. His hands fell in his lap, fiddling with the cotton of the material to distract himself from too heavy thoughts because – fuck. Touching Harry was everything Louis had wanted all fucking week. It was a big step; for all this time, they’d made a mutual, unspoken agreement that Harry was off-limits, at least until he was ready for that kind of thing.

And Louis knew that he didn’t want...that he didn’t want to blow Harry. At least not yet. The memory with Sam was too raw, and despite the fact that Louis was old enough and wise enough to know that not every experience of blow jobs would be like that, blowing Harry was out of the question until Louis could stomach the idea of putting himself in that vulnerable, precarious position again. It was about trust and, really, Louis  _did_  trust Harry – whole-heartedly – but it was about trusting Harry to know what Louis wanted, and he wasn’t sure if Harry was experienced enough to know that sort of thing just yet.

But if Harry was suggesting that Louis  _touch_  him...that was okay. That was more than okay, really. Louis wasn’t a fucking saint – he could hardly refuse – and he’d craved Harry like that for what felt like ages. Just the intense heat and the firmness of his body pressed against Louis’ felt amazing, and Louis  _wanted_  to make Harry unravel just a bit. To see what lay beneath the shy composure.

“Only if you wanted to, Haz.” Louis leaned forward, resting his forehead against Harry’s. Just hovering. Harry was going cross-eyed from staring at him from such a short space, and it was just so fucking adorable. Not for the first time, Louis wondered how on earth it was possible to be so adorable and so hot at the same time. Harry was just such a little  _shit_.

“I want you to kiss me, Louis,” Harry sighed, his warm breath fanning over Louis’ mouth. And that was a heady thing, that. Harry’s breath, how it felt, how Louis could probably taste it if he just edged forward a little, if he just skimmed his lips against Harry’s.

He did. He wasn’t well known for his self-restraint, after all. Louis pressed his lips against Harry’s mouth, sucking lightly, holding back a small whimper when Harry responded eagerly. He pulled Louis closer – so close that Louis shifted to remain balanced, so that now he was  _between_  Harry’s legs, knees touching, damp against dry. Harry didn’t seem to mind; his hands came up to brush against Louis’ sides, fingers pressing into his hips. He felt so soft beneath Louis, so pliant and giving and relaxed. Harry was kind of the embodiment of what he made Louis feel.

And Harry tasted fucking fantastic. Louis didn’t know what it was. Sure, there was a hint of the beer he’d drank, and the toothpaste he’d used to brush his teeth. But that wasn’t what Louis actually  _tasted_. He just...it was indescribable. So good. Louis couldn’t think past how amazing it felt, how he just wanted to be closer, how he wanted to please Harry, to give him everything he deserved because he deserved  _so bloody much_  – he deserved the whole world.

“Louis,” Harry muttered against Louis’ mouth, teeth scraping against Louis’ bottom lip. “I want...”

Louis brought a hand up to rest at the dip between Harry’s shoulder and neck, the other running through Harry’s hair, pinning him to the pillow. He wasn’t too rough, Harry deserved gentleness, but he made it very clear that he didn’t want Harry to go anywhere.

When Harry parted his lips, granting Louis’ tongue access, Louis almost moaned. There was something to be said about Harry’s mouth, about how warm and wet it was, how his lips yielded against Louis’, how they were so much bigger – enveloping almost – and Harry’s  _tongue_ , holy shit. Louis could barely comprehend what havoc Harry’s tongue could wreck if Harry chose to use it elsewhere.

Louis wanted to see what  _Harry_  looked like whilst wrecked.

“What do you want, baby?” Louis didn’t know how it happened, but his voice was a lot deeper than usual, roughened by the desire he felt deep in his gut.

Harry hesitated and Louis had a fair idea what Harry wanted, judging by the hardness in his boxers chafing slightly against Louis’ thigh. Louis lowered his hips, not enough to put his weight on Harry, but enough to cause just the little friction needed to stimulate Harry further.

Harry’s breath caught. He gasped into Louis’ mouth, a hitched quality to it and he lifted his hips up from the bed, chasing the friction –  _fucking hell_ , if that wasn’t the hottest thing Louis’ seen. Harry was so pretty, so gorgeous, that Louis could barely comprehend that he was like this for Louis. That it was Louis causing Harry to keen softly, to silently beg him for the contact; it was Louis that had Harry rubbing against him, the friction leaving Harry stuttering out tiny, almost inaudible gasps.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Louis didn’t ask it in a teasing way; it was a genuine question. With Harry, it was difficult to know where he stood, what he could and could not do. The boundaries were freshly drawn, but not discussed, and Louis was consciously aware of that. As consciously aware as he was of Harry’s hard dick against his bare leg, and of his own throbbing beneath the towel.

“Mm, yes,” Harry whined, eyelids fluttering when Louis pressed a kiss beneath his jaw. “Feels so good, Louis. Different...but good.”

“That’s alright.” Louis adjusted his position, sitting back on Harry’s thighs. Harry’s eyes flew open when he sensed Louis moving, and he watched him carefully – with the kind of attention that made Louis want to blush. It was exhilarating, having Harry’s eyes on him – all of his focus, all of it, was directed at Louis. Louis had never felt so powerful.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Harry’s stomach, trying not to grimace when the head of Harry’s cock brushed against his neck. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Harry’s dick in his mouth – oh, he fucking did – but he was so goddamn terrified of putting his lips near it, so repelled by the memories that haunted him. Which wasn’t fair, really. Harry had a gorgeous body, and he was a gorgeous guy, and Louis...fuck, Louis  _liked_  him – pre-teen italics kind of  _like_. But it was there in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t concentrate on pleasing Harry that way if he wasn’t enjoying it himself. “I can’t...I can’t take you into my mouth, Haz. Not yet. Please don’t ask me.”

Harry locked up, muscles going completely rigid beneath him, but Louis pressed his fingers into the crease of Harry’s groin, eliciting a startled yelp. It seemed to do the trick in distracting him; green eyes met his, solemn and sincere but also kind of frenzied and wild – pupils blown out. Harry’s fingers twitched in Louis’ nervously.

“We need to talk about that,” Harry tried to shift out from underneath Louis, grimacing when Louis held him still. “We shouldn’t – not if you’re upset. C’mon.”

Louis shook his head. “’M not upset at the moment,” he said simply. It was the truth; his mind was much too focused on Harry’s glorious body beneath him, coated in a glimmer of sweat, cock straining against his grey boxers, a small blot of pre-come suspiciously darkening the front of them. “I want – no,  _need_  – to do this for you, Harry. I want to make you happy.”

“I can go without,” Harry pressed against Louis’ shoulder, keeping him from dipping closer to Harry’s stomach. “If you’re not comfortable.”

Louis batted his hand away irritably. “I want to,” he reiterated, whining almost, and he smiled contentedly when Harry let him kiss the flesh of his hips. Louis flicked his tongue out, testing, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “Just don’t make me to blow you.”

“I won’t,” Harry said solemnly. “I wouldn’t want to make you do anything you were uncomfortable –  _oh_ ,  _shit_ -” He choked off when Louis sank his teeth into the fleshy part of his hips. It wasn’t so much a hickey as it was an actual bite – Louis estimation of pain perception wasn’t really that great if he was honest – and Louis suspected it probably hurt more than he anticipated, but Harry responded perfectly, arching his back, mewling, his eyes fluttered shut. Louis ran his hands over the waistband of Harry’s boxers, gauging his reaction. He didn’t flinch or cringe away, but only begged  _“Please, Lou.”_

Louis coaxed the band over Harry’s crotch, letting his cock spring free –  _holy fucking shit,_  Harry had the most perfect cock Louis thought he’d ever seen. Pink and flush and definitely more erect than it probably should be at this early stage, but he couldn’t exactly blame Harry – not when his own dick was hard beneath his towel, the stirring of his arousal tightening the muscles of his abdomen.

“Lift up,” Louis murmured softly, tapping Harry’s thigh. Harry obliged, lifting his hips, pushing his cock closer to Louis’ face, and Louis removed Harry’s boxers completely, dropping them to the floor. Without hesitation, Louis pressed a kiss to his inner thigh, noticing the way Harry’s muscles seemed to tremble slightly beneath his mouth. Louis couldn’t discern whether it was nervousness or desire, but either way, it was so endearing.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Louis warned him. “If you don’t want it anymore."

“Kiss me, Lou,” Harry begged, hand reaching for Louis’ wrist to bring him closer. “Kiss me, please. I need you-”

Louis stretched over him, positively draped over Harry’s body now, the towel barely wrapped around Louis’ waist, and he tugged Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, earning an involuntary whimper of impatience from Harry’s part. Harry reached up, cupped his hand around Louis’ neck, yanking him closer, and then they were just lips moving, tongues licking into each other’s mouths, teeth bumping clumsily and Louis had never had a kiss like this. Never had something be so inept and inelegant and yet so fucking intoxicating at the same time.

Louis’ hands ghosted down his chest, until they rested on Harry’s naked thighs. He could feel Harry’s muscles coiling and relaxing beneath his touch, the reaction only stimulated when Louis’ fingertips tapped ritualistically against the crease of Harry’s groin. He practically  _felt_  Harry’s cock twitch against his knuckles, heard his shuddering breath in Louis’ ear. Louis pulled back, lowering his head to press tiny kisses against the smooth skin of Harry’s inner thigh. He wasn’t particularly hairy and Louis wasn’t really one who found he minded either way.

“You’re teasing me,” Harry commented, pouting slightly. There was an element of breathlessness to his voice that just  _did_  something to Louis, churning the arousal he felt deep in his crotch.

Louis smiled against Harry’s leg, moving up to let his tongue – tensed and coiled – flick at the head of Harry’s dick, tasting his pre-come. Harry’s body trembled. It was something that occurred to Louis at the last minute, a spontaneous decision, but the choked up feeling in his throat stopped him from doing it again. He felt a little guilty when Harry gave an audible groan. He wanted to please Harry that way but he just...he clammed up. He couldn’t fucking do it.

Harry lifted his chin, sensing Louis’ regret. His green eyes were so concerned and Louis felt his own prickle with tears. He wasn’t used to it – too much affection. Too much emotion. Too much. He blinked rapidly to clear them when Harry spoke. “Don’t – don’t do  _that_.” His eyes flickered to his own cock, the words slurred with desire. “I don’t care how good it feels. If you don’t like it, don’t do it again.”

Louis nodded, not trusting himself to think. How did he get so lucky? How was Harry so fucking trusting and accepting and accommodating and gentle and kind and calm all at once? Louis could see the reliance in Harry’s gaze, could see the dependence. He was letting Louis take the reins but there were some things even Harry couldn’t let Louis control. It was strange – Louis had only ever been in relationships where they’d each stuck to their roles. Louis had almost always topped, and his partners had been bottoms. It was just...just how it was.

But with Harry, it was different. Louis was leading him but he was also being led, too. Harry guided him in ways Louis didn’t even know he needed guidance, in ways that were so completely foreign. Louis was in charge of what he did to Harry, but he definitely felt like the two of them were at equal positions; that if one told the other to do something, it wouldn’t be questioned.

Louis could feel Harry’s concerned gaze on the top of his head, and it was very fucking distracting if he was honest. He took hold of Harry’s dick, using the fresh bubble of pre-come leaking from the tip as lubricant enough to toss him off. He worked slowly, mesmerised by the way the pre-come slicked Harry’s cock. When Harry’s breathing quickened, he looked up, watching as Harry’s green eyes darkened, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he was letting out tiny noises of need. Louis’ grip tightened and Harry’s closed his eyes, turning his head into the sheets, his bottom lip rolling between his teeth.

Louis didn’t want him to come yet, so he stopped long before it became a serious temptation. Harry whined at the loss of contact, turning back to him, but Louis just smiled.

“I want to try something,” he croaked, voice much lower than it usually was. “I’ve done it before – it feels great – but you can let me know if you don’t like it, yeah?”

Harry nodded without hesitation. There was so much fucking trust, Louis thought disbelievingly. He reached over for a pillow, figuring there were lots more where that came from, and he beckoned for Harry to lift his hips so he could feed the cushion beneath him, changing up the angle. Harry bit his lip but complied, a renewed expression of insecurity and uncertainty flashing over his features. Louis smiled, turning his head to kiss the inside of Harry’s knee. He pushed them back slightly, closer to Harry’s chest – but not so he was blocking his face – and Harry made a sound of embarrassed surprise.

“It’s okay,” Louis soothed. “You’re look beautiful, Haz. You know all about beauty, but you never see it in yourself.” Harry only moaned at his words, tipping his head back against the pillow. Louis dipped his head, tongue snaking out over the underside of Harry’s cock. It was a shaky, unsure movement from Louis’ part, but it didn’t involve his neck or his lips in anyway so the flashbacks abated, thankfully. Harry jumped at the contact, body almost overly sensitive to it. Louis pressed a hand against his leg to still him, glancing up to meet his eyes.

“Don’t...” Deep breath. “Don’t push my head, alright? I can’t...I need to be in control if I do this.”

Harry’s concerned look was back, but Louis pinched his knee playfully before he could say anything. Harry yelped, foot jerking, and Louis grinned at his puppy-dog expression. Too fucking cute.

Louis flicked his tongue over the base of Harry’s cock, hearing Harry’s appreciative hum like it was Louis’ own reward. He moved down, tongue delicately trailing over his balls before halting at his perineum. Harry jolted at the sensation, mumbling “ _Lou_...” as he squirmed uncomfortably. Louis pressed his hands against Harry’s knees, stopping him from closing his legs. Harry didn’t ask him to stop.

He rather fucking liked Harry’s ass, thank you very much. It was clean and only lightly smattered in hair; frankly, it smelled enthralling. Like Harry and skin and warmth and the promise of something  _more_. Louis’ tongue darted across the area, hands clamping down on Harry when he twitched again.

“Sit still,” Louis mumbled against the cleft of his ass. Harry’s hips were tilted at a pretty awkward angle but, well, neither of them was complaining.

“I can’t,” Harry whimpered. He threw his head back when Louis quite unceremoniously spread his ass cheeks and ran his tongue over Harry’s hole. He gave a strangled moan, a rough, slightly ruined sound to his voice. “ _Fuck!”_

Louis really hadn’t heard Harry swear so passionately before. He watched with fascination as Harry’s hole tightened, flexing with the sheen of Louis’ saliva, pink and puckered and really bloody tight. He could only imagine how Harry might be feeling – the sudden chilliness that came with Louis’ abandon, the feel of the air pressing coldly against it. It was an intimate area and Louis just wanted to pay it some attention.

He spread Harry’s cheeks again, diving in, tongue coaxing at Harry’s rim. He couldn’t particularly see well, but he was still consciously aware of Harry – of the way the younger boy was clutching desperately at the sheets, the way his head was thrown back with pleasure, of the way he was making small noises, little broken murmurs of enjoyment.

“Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis,” Harry chanted, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted with every pant. He looked a lot younger like this – maybe nineteen or twenty. His hair was wild and his cheeks were obscenely flushed. He couldn’t see very well, but Louis wouldn’t hesitate to hazard a guess to say that Harry’s eyes were probably glazed over, shiny with the intensity of it all. “I didn’t even know it could feel this good.”

 _Just you fucking wait_ , Louis thought smugly, but he didn’t say anything as he grabbed at Harry’s ass again, planting kisses directly over Harry’s hole, sucking lightly. He was definitely trembling now, knees quivering around Louis’ head, the muscles of his abdomen clenching beneath his fern tattoos, his rim contracting and relaxing beneath Louis’ mouth. It looked so fucking small, so bloody pretty. Louis knew Harry hadn’t had anal before – in that respect, he was still a virgin – and Louis suddenly wondered what it would feel like to fuck Harry’s ass, how tight it would be – oh,  _God_.

“How good does it feel, Harry?” It wasn’t meant as dirty talk, and Harry didn’t take it as such. It was a simple question, letting Harry consider it, letting Harry come to terms with his own body. For all intents and purposes, this was Harry’s first experience. First time with a man, anyway. It didn’t matter what he’d done with a girl; preferences were so different when it was a man lying between your thighs. Louis was letting Harry try to understand what he liked, what he wanted, what he preferred.

“Good... _amazing_...you look so amazing like that, Lou – fuck. Oh, God. Yes, yes, yes,  _please_ , Louis – so good.” Harry seemed almost incoherent, thrashing his head side to side, looking on the edge of very ruined. It was kind of weird; definitely remarkable to see him like this. Harry, who was so calm and controlled and gentle and kind and mature and knowing, was now a quivering wreck beneath Louis’ ministrations, voice pleading, forehead sweating, eyes bright with delirious need. And that was just from doing  _this_. Louis could barely imagine what Harry’d be like after actually being fucked.

“Do you want...” Louis pulled back, realising that Harry was reacting most when Louis spoke against his skin, the vibrations chasing his arousal. Probably wasn’t the best way to get Harry to concentrate on Louis’ words. He exchanged his tongue with his finger, tracing Harry’s rim with his fingertip. “If you want, we could try this.” He pressed down a little – not enough to coax Harry’s rim open, but enough to convey his meaning. Harry lifted his head to look at Louis and then fell back against the pillows again, too pliant and weak to support himself for too long. Louis suspected he was close to an orgasm and – bloody hell, Louis reckoned he could watch Harry like this all day, possibly come untouched from it, even. It was stupefying, is what it was. Fucking out of this world.

“I...” Harry gave it serious consideration. Louis let him think for a split-second, eyes drawn to Harry’s cock. There was a small pool of pre-come between the ferns tattooed on his abdomen beneath the tip, his dick pink, flushed, throbbing. Louis could see a vein running up its underside and he’d never seen something so fascinating in all his life. He wanted to run his tongue over it, to take Harry’s cock into his mouth – he wanted to. And it was so fucking frustrating because he was battling the fear lodging in his gut and the fear was winning.

“Will it hurt?”

Louis blinked, focusing on Harry’s blessed-out face. He sat up between Harry’s legs. “Hmm?”

“One finger – just, I heard it hurts. First time.” Harry blushed, tore his gaze away. Louis reached over and tugged his chin back so that he could see his eyes.

“If you weren’t so fucking tall this could be a lot easier,” Louis noted wryly, eyeing the way he was stretched over Harry’s body.  Harry chuckled.  _Such a stunning sound,_  Louis thought.  _Never heard enough._  “No, it doesn’t hurt. If it’s done right. Obviously, if I wasn’t careful enough or you didn’t communicate with me, it could be painful.”

Harry didn’t even blink. He surged forward, kissing Louis like...like it was the end of the world. Louis finally understood why they use all those clichés in romance movies – about fireworks and waves and flames and stars because he could use all of those to describe how it felt kissing Harry. Because Harry was so goddamn affectionate – Louis just wasn’t used to that kind of affection without it feeling awkward – and yet it felt  _right_. He didn’t think anything with Harry could be uncomfortable. This was...it was heaven. “I trust you,” Harry spoke into his mouth, quiet and subdued.

And, wow, okay. That meant a lot more than Louis thought it would. He pulled back, resting his hands on Harry’s knees. The younger boy flushed again, covering a hand over his chest – he was probably thinking about the obscene view Louis was getting of Harry. He was too self-conscious for his own good. “You...you do?”

Harry nodded. “You’ve done it before – I mean, you know what you’re doing.” He shrugged, and then exhaled when Louis ran his fingers over his leg. “And I really need to come soon.”

Louis grinned, feeling as though he’d been lit from within. Harry trusted him. He trusted Louis to help him finish, trusted that he wouldn’t hurt him. Louis ran his lips over Harry’s knee, letting his tongue snake out over his thigh, chasing all the way up to his groin. Teasing ludicrously, but the guttural noises of impatience sounding from Harry made it well worth it. Harry’s hips drove up involuntarily, lifting from the bed, too close to Louis’ face. Louis froze, flinching. He was reminded briefly of Sam fucking his mouth, of thrusting his hips into Louis’ face so violently...

Louis pushed Harry back down, gritting his teeth. It wasn’t his fault. He was on overdrive, barely thinking coherently from the heat of it all. Harry didn’t even notice what he’d done – he was lost in the intensity of it.

When Harry’s breathing picked up, hitching to conceal his keening whine, Louis squeezed his knee, reaching over to blindly look for the bottle of lube Harry’d dumped in his drawer.

“Water-based,” Harry muttered, eyes wide. “I remember.”

Louis laughed quietly, as though he was afraid to burst this bubble of trust and intimacy that had seemingly formed around them. Yes, it was very fucking late, and Louis had spent the night partying and crying, but right now, he’d never felt more alive. This was  _Harry_. His Harry.

Louis turned his attention to the lube, coating his finger thickly in the stuff. He didn’t want there to be any chance that Harry could get hurt from this, knowing that he could be scared off just as easily as he was drawn in. Harry watched him unblinkingly, and Louis was pleased to see there was no doubt in his eyes, no hesitation. He really wanted this.

Louis didn’t know how or when Harry’s barrier of self-reservation collapsed, but he was so fucking thankful that it had. Now Harry was here, lying back on the bed, Louis sat between his thighs, and he was breathing erratically, looking as though he’d already been fucked, body shiny with a slight sheen of sweat. Louis didn’t think there was anyone in the world that could look as gorgeous as Harry did now.

Louis traced his lube-slicked finger over Harry’s hole, noticing the way he jumped at the feel of it. “’S wet,” was all Harry said as explanation. “Obviously.” He rolled his eyes as his own senselessness. Louis smiled fondly, leaning forward to kiss him. He couldn’t help but sigh into Harry’s mouth when Harry’s fingers stoked up Louis’ bicep. Simple touches, fleeting glances, unexpected comments – that was all Harry had to give Louis to make him feel good. And that was...that was bizarre, a foreign feeling.

Louis applied pressure to Harry’s rim, enough to make Harry whine against his mouth, and then he gently pushed his finger in – only half way. Enough to make Harry squeeze his eyes shut and a restrained, choked groan escape his lips. Louis waited, waited for Harry to adjust around him – he was so tight, so fucking hot, Louis could barely even comprehend it. He pressed his hand against Harry’s chest, running his thumb across his sternum. When he seemed more relaxed, Louis pushed further in – until his knuckle met Harry’s rim. Harry lifted his hips, mewling senselessly and Louis would quite happily listen to Harry’s sounds of utter elation for every single day of his entire life if he could. It wouldn’t be a chore. Louis couldn’t help his staring – he just, he wanted to watch Harry forever, admire him like this always. He’d never wanted that before, he revelled in the unfamiliarity – it was so different for them. The affection and intimacy they shared was as foreign to Louis as the sex stuff was for Harry. They both had something to learn from each other, Louis thought ironically. Perhaps that was why they worked, for now.

“Louis,” Harry reached for him, slipping his hand beneath Louis’ jaw, pulling him so their faces were inches away from each other, Louis’ finger still buried deep in Harry’s heat, his rim clenching and loosening around his knuckle. Louis couldn’t breathe – he was lost in Harry’s green gaze, lost in the intimacy of it. They weren’t even kissing, just staring, and Louis wasn’t used to how bare he felt beneath Harry’s scrutiny. Not for the first time, he felt like Harry could see through the facade of confidence Louis hid behind, felt like he was seeing more than the self-assured grin he was offering.

Harry’s thumb traced over his cheekbone, making Louis’ eyelids flicker closed. Louis couldn’t react, couldn’t even crook his finger in Harry’s ass or do anything to regain control. Because that’s what this was – Harry controlling him, taking hold of Louis’ power and throwing it to the wind, taking hold of Louis’ ability to feel what he let himself feel and scrapping it entirely, until Louis was shaken up with the unbidden warmth and fucking  _reverence_  spreading through him. He leaned into Harry’s palm, his body responding as a force of its own. Louis had never felt so powerless, never felt so helpless to someone else’s touch.

He’d been with a lot of men; more than he cared to count. He’d been fucked, and he’d fucked others, he’d been kissed harshly, and blown, and rimmed and totally manhandled. He’d experienced sex like most never would – primal, frenzied sex. He was wild with it, the life of a party – the one other guys fought to take home at the end of a drunken night.

Never before had he experienced  _this_.

Just...just touching. Just looking at each other, taking each other in. And the way Harry was looking at him, like Louis was his whole entire world – his sun, even – it was too much to comprehend. Louis’ thoughts were jumbled, illogical, self-discipline scattered. For so many years he’d taught himself not to feel this way, not to let himself be at the mercy of others during sex. For so many years he’d held control. Here, with Harry, it was gone in an instant, shattered into oblivion, and Louis would have walked across hot coals for Harry, would have done anything for him at that moment. Anything.

It was fucking terrifying.

“Lou...” Harry breathed, touching Louis’ lips with his index finger. Louis let out a shuddering breath, willing himself to speak, to say anything – to stop fucking staring like a loon, though that’s what he thought he must be.

“Does...” Start again. “Does it feel good?”

Harry closed his eyes, nodding, a smile stretching his lips. He was perfect. Flawless. He clutched at the sheets, bunching the material in his hands so tight his knuckles were white.

Louis pulled his finger out, pushed back in slowly. Harry’s eyelids flew open, pupils blown, and he let out a long breath of composure. Louis didn’t care that he was at an awkward angle – lying between Harry’s legs with his wrist crooked awkwardly between them. It was well worth the discomfort to see Harry’s face though, to see the way he regarded Louis. Louis crooked his finger, pushing as deep as he could. Harry squirmed, kitten-like whines slipping from his mouth.

“You need to come?” Louis asked him gently, pressing a kiss to the underside of Harry’s chin when he arched his neck. It was roughened by light stubble – stubble Louis hadn’t noticed before. “Touch yourself, baby.”

“Fuck...” Harry moved his free hand to his cock, the other still framing Louis’ jaw. Louis was so fucking hard – there was a serious chance that he could come untouched. It was just  _Harry_  – Harry’s influence over Louis, the way he made Louis feel. “Please, Lou...”

Louis didn’t think Harry would need two fingers – he looked perfectly ruined as it was. Louis thrust into Harry, pushing until his rim was flexing against Louis’ hand. He shifted his angle a bit, trying not to pull a face at the awkwardness of his wrist, and Harry sucked in a sudden, sharp breath, lifting from the bed, crying out. “ _Louis_ , shit, oh my God,  _please_ , yes – there, please, there – fuck!”

Louis ducked his head into Harry’s neck, smiling against his hot, sweaty skin. He’d found his prostate, then. He beckoned slowly inside Harry, relishing in the way Harry squirmed against him, positively panting against Louis’ hair. Louis felt Harry’s arm moving around his waist, holding him close, tossing himself off fervently with the other hand. It was probably the most awkward angle Louis had ever done this at, but he didn’t give a fuck. It was also probably the best.

Harry’s moans grew louder and Louis knew he was close.

“Come on, Harry,” Louis coaxed, surprised by the tenderness to his own tone. He was so fucking proud, so fond, so goddamn full of affection for Harry. It was overwhelming, what he felt for him. Completely unfamiliar, too. “You can come now, sweet. You can come now.”

“Louis,” Harry gasped, pressing a soft kiss into Louis’ hair. Louis hummed in appreciation, coaxing his finger over Harry’s prostate. He bit his lip, turning his face into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut.  “God, Louis – yes,  _yes_  – Lou, fuck!”

Harry came, shooting white spurts over his tanned stomach. Some of it hit Louis’ arm, hot and thick and fucking amazing. Louis couldn’t help himself – he rutted against Harry’s thigh, surprised to find that he was a lot closer to coming than he’d originally known. He’d paid so much attention to Harry that he hadn’t really given much thought to himself – but Harry’s long, drawn out moans of pleasure and his hot come on Louis’ arm was almost enough to send him over the edge. He reached down to his own cock, letting the towel fall to the floor, and he pumped himself quick and fast, overcome with pleasure.

Louis grabbed his chin, turning Harry's gaze on him. Harry stared at him lazily, eyes bright with the intensity of the aftershocks from his orgasm. “Fuck, Harry. You’re so fucking gorgeous, fuck-” Louis came, feeling the hot liquid spill over his fist. Louis shifted upright, sitting on Harry’s thighs, and Harry keened when Louis nudged his softening dick – clearly oversensitive. Louis glanced up, grinning victoriously, but Harry was already staring at him, green eyes wide with wonder and affection and Louis didn’t ever want to look away because that was for him. Harry felt that for  _him_. It was so strange.

Louis’ self-consciousness won out and he blushed, dipping a kiss to Harry’s come-soaked stomach. His tongue snaked out, tasting him – fucking hell, he tasted just the same as he did last time. Sweet and musky and enthralling.

“Lou...” Harry whined uncomfortably, wriggling beneath him. “Louis, I need to clean up – Louuuuuuu...”

Louis chuckled, pulling back. He licked his lips, grinning when Harry’s lips parted with bashful surprise. He shifted his weight off of Harry, going into the bathroom to wet a flannel. He wiped the few drops of come from his arm and then went to Harry. He was sat up, on the bed, arms covering himself insecurely, gaze following Louis. Louis pressed the flannel against Harry’s skin, cleaning him up. Harry didn’t say anything, eyes glazed over with thought, and Louis left him to it. Probably needed to come to terms with what they’d done, or something.

Louis threw Harry some clean boxers – some of  _Louis’_  boxers – and put on a pair himself. When he turned back to the bed, Harry had already tucked himself in, smiling tenderly. “Come to bed, Louis,” Harry murmured. “Please?”

Louis wanted that, wanted that very much. “You don’t have to ask. I’m fucking knackered.”

Louis crawled into bed, taking the side nearest the wall. Harry curled his body around him, thighs pressed against thighs, hips pressed against hips, Louis’ back pressed into Harry’s chest. It was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, they were so close. Louis tucked his chin closer to his chest, eyes already drifting shut. He felt Harry press a small kiss into his hair before sleep claimed him.

When he awoke, it wasn’t morning. That much was certain judging by the darkness that had settled over the room. How there was possibly anymore night left to spend, Louis wasn’t sure, since it was probably one o’clock when they fell asleep-

Harry was gone.

Louis opened his eyes a crack. He was facing away from the wall now; he’d be facing into Harry if he was here. He wasn’t.

Louis opened his eyes fully, panic warring in him. He checked the clock – it was three a.m. Where was Harry?

He saw him soon enough. He was fully dressed – jeans, top, and boots – tapping his phone against his palm thoughtfully,  his back to Louis. There was something firm in the set of his shoulders, something tense about him; no sign of the pliant, relaxed Harry from earlier. He heaved a sigh, shifting on his weight as though he was deciding something. Before Louis could even react, Harry lunged for the room keys, opened the door, and walked out.

Louis had never felt so alone.


End file.
